


Love Is A Much More Vicious Motivator

by DoesntMakeYouAGenius



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Death of an OC, I REGRET NOTHING, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mild Peril, Murder, Strong rugby influence, Teenlock, The Ship Takes a Bit of a Back Seat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-02-24 03:50:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 43,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2567153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoesntMakeYouAGenius/pseuds/DoesntMakeYouAGenius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson and Sherlock Holmes start boarding school together, but before long the body of one of the students is found. It falls to John, Sherlock, and a group of students to solve the murder, but everyone has their secrets, and some are about to be dragged into the light...<br/>Now complete!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello,  
> This fic was originally posted on Wattpad, and I am the same author, so don't worry. This is my long work so far, and I'm pretty proud of it, but feel free to constructively criticise. Also, later chapters are beta'd, but the first few aren't. Hopefully, they will be in time, and I will update them as that happens. Until then, happy reading!  
> ~The Effect

John Watson gaped as the car rolled up to his new school. This would be his home from now until the summer holidays, in 9 months time.  
The prospectus had stated that Lauriston Gardens was a combined sixth form and university, on the same campus. John had wondered at the time how big it would have to be to provide adequate facilities. He could see now.  
The imposing structure towered over the large grounds, pale brickwork rising from the ground like it had grown there. The ivy covered walls housed hundreds of seemingly tiny windows spread evenly around one massive set of dark red wooden doors.  
As they drove up the driveway, John listened to the crunching of stones beneath the tyres and watched the evenly spaced trees go by.  
Everything was perfect. The trees were all of the same height, with no flyaway branches, even the lawns, it seemed, had been cut to a precise length. Through the trees, John glimpsed a cricket strip, and the tips of some rugby posts, peeking over another row of trees. The grounds were endless fields of lush green.  
At 17 years of age, John had seen his fair share of enormous buildings and vast grounds, but this was in a league of its own.  
As the car pulled to a stop, John said farewell to his parents, promised to stay in touch, and took his case from the boot. Then he stood and watched as his parents joined the queue of cars trying to leave the school grounds.  
He was on his own.  
First of all, John decided, he should find his room and dump his bag. Then he could do some exploring, maybe with his roommate, depending on who it turned out to be. So yes, first things first. Room.  
He dragged his case up to the imposing doors and joined the small crowd of other people trying to get in. He wondered whether each of these people were nice, hard working, nasty, or sporty, and if any of them would be his friend.  
Previously, John hadn't exactly had an issue with friends, just there was no one he really wanted to spend time with. Sure, the guys on the rugby team were friendly enough, but they did some things that John hadn't liked, so he hadn't really hung out with them.  
He made it through the doors and into the foyer, which was even more intimidating than the doors that preceded it. It had a high ceiling, in dark, cherry wood, held up by four tall, panelled walls. There were three doors out of the room, two on one wall, and one on the opposite. The two side by side were labeled Boys' Dormitory, and Girls' Dormitory, in slanting script. In the centre of the room were three fold away tables, labeled A-I, J-R, and S-Z.  
John stepped up to the temporary desk labeled S-Z, and waited patiently in the short queue.  
"Name?" The kindly looking woman over the desk asked.  
"Watson. John Watson."  
She rifled systematically through the files until she came to his name.  
"Here you go, love. Your room is 221, block B, so I'll be your housemother. That means that if you have any problems or need to ask a question, you can come to me. My name's Mrs Hudson. You need to go through that door there, up one flight of stairs, through the common room, and down the first corridor on the left. There's a map in here in case you get lost." She handed him a red lever arch file, with a selection of papers inside. "You can use the folder for your schoolwork."  
"Thank you." John smiled at Mrs Hudson, before turning to go through the door she had indicated.  
When Mrs Hudson had said "one flight of stairs" he had assumed that there wouldn't be much of a climb. Standing at the foot of the grand twisting staircase, he sighed.  
He gripped his case by the handle and carried it by his side and he climbed the endless spiral of steps, reaching the top and feeling slightly proud that he was only a little out of breath.  
He went through the spacious common room, then through another door and moved down the corridor, taking the first left and coming to a tall, black door, with the number 221 in brass letters. All the doors were the same, black paint, brass number, but this one was special. This would be John's home.  
Fitting his key into the lock and pushing open the door, John was surprised to find that his roommate wasn't there. He had assumed that he was one of the last to arrive, judging by the number of files on Mrs Hudson's desk. The scattered detritus suggested that his prospective roommate was already here, but had gone out. To see a friend, or a sibling, maybe.  
The room was large, but still cosy. It was almost symmetrical - with comfy-looking twin beds, two wooden wardrobes, flush against the right hand wall at the head of each bed, and two desks - but for the main door, windows, and bathroom door.  
The main door was directly opposite to the full length windows, covered by long, thick, red, velvety curtains. The bathroom door was between the desks on the left hand wall.  
The bed nearest the window was covered with things, and the corresponding desk at its foot held a landslide of textbooks, so John moved to the side nearest the door he had come through.  
He put his case down next to the empty bed, then decided to go out and explore, saving the unpacking for later.  
He left the room, headed back to the staircase and smiled.  
He really was looking forward to checking out the sports facilities.  
***  
An hour and a half later, John had surveyed three rugby pitches - one had a boggy corner but they were otherwise in perfect condition - and a cricket strip which was pristine, as well as taking a small trip into a thick wood.  
Overall, he was amazed by the school grounds, and by what he had seen of the inside as well.  
He returned to the room and came across his elusive roommate.  
The dark haired young man was draped across his bed, his long, pale fingers steepled beneath his chin. His face was long, with a defined jaw and cheekbones. Atop his head was a nest of dark chocolate curls, long and unkempt.  
He stretched on the bed, his long, slender legs almost reaching the end. John had no doubt that this boy would tower over him, but he was very narrow shouldered and thin, his ribs visible through his thin shirt.  
"Hello." John attempted to greet his roommate.  
"Don't speak."  
This wasn't the reply John had been expecting. 'What's your name?' yes, or 'how are you?' but just an abrupt end to all further conversation, no. John paused, then moved over to his bed and began unpacking. It wasn't long before he felt the stranger's eyes on his back, so he turned.  
"You stopped talking." The boy seemed confused.  
"Yes, you asked me to."  
"People don't normally do what I ask."  
"I'm not a normal person."  
"Yes you are. You're all boring."  
"Excuse me?"  
"Well, look at yourself. You're from money but not an excessive amount, you play rugby, cricket in the summer, you do very well in school but you aren't popular and that annoys you, you want to be a doctor. You have one older sibling, a brother. Simple, boring."  
"That's fantastic." The boy cocked his head.  
"People don't usually do that, either."  
"I thought I was boring?" John bristled slightly at the harsh word. "I don't even know your name, and you know all this about me, how come? How do you do it?"  
"I observe. Your bag is brand new, any of the less well off families here would have a second hand one. Not that anyone's particularly poor in this school... Thus, you're from money. You have a bruise on your forearm, two, actually. Circular, the type most likely made by studs. Football or rugby, the bruises are in your arm, unlikely to be football, entirely possible in a ruck situation, so rugby. In summer, cricket, I watched you put your bat in the wardrobe a moment ago. You have a photograph of your family with you, but not of the elusive brother, who certainly exists, you're wearing his shirt. You don't like him? He's left home and you want nothing more to do with him? Not my problem. You have four books on your desk already, all on medicines or ailments, it's not a far stretch to suggest you want to be a doctor, you aren't popular, there's nothing from your friends wishing you well, everyone else has something. Not you. But you hold yourself in a way which suggests you are stubborn, you refuse to let them see it get to you, but it does, doesn't it, John?"  
"How'd you know my name?" John smirked.  
"It's on your case. Was I right?"  
"Yes. Brilliant. I want to be a doctor, my family is well off, I do well at school... One thing."  
The boy swung his legs around and propped his elbows on his knees. "Oh yes, what?"  
"Older sister. She's a bit of a tomboy, so I wear some of her clothes. And she's left home, so we don't see her often."  
"Sister, damned sister. That doesn't explain why you don't have her photo. In fact, wouldn't you want it more if she's not around?"  
"Harry's... Difficult. We don't talk about it."  
"Obviously not. She clearly takes the term 'black sheep' to heart."  
"Just drop it, okay? I don't even know your name, and you know everything about me." John repeated.  
"Sherlock Holmes." the dark haired boy replied.  
"Right then. Pleased to meet you, Sherlock. What you did, a minute ago, that was really impressive, but you know that, right?"  
"Of course."  
"Of course." John repeated, backing off once again to unpack. Sherlock Holmes was certainly his most roommate to date.


	2. Friendships Form

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys settle in, and John joins the rugby team.

There was a short assembly to welcome the students to the school, which Sherlock refused to go to, based on the fact he already knew what the headmaster was going to say. John had rolled his eyes, agreed that assemblies are boring, then gone anyway.  
Sherlock was right. The assembly was mind-numbingly dull. All waffle about how the school will bring out success in anyone, some basic rules, and a really mundane outline of the school year.  
John nearly fell asleep at one point, but was woken up by a heavily built boy sat beside him, who elbowed him in the ribs with a smile. John returned the favour two minutes later.  
After the assembly, the boy introduced himself as Chris North, and said he wanted to join the rugby team.  
"Judging by the size of you," John said, taking in Chris' bulk, "I'd say you're a second row."  
"Got it in one. And you, my little friend, must be a hooker."  
"Definitely."  
"When are the trials?" Chris asked, his deep voice rumbling in his chest, a welsh accent becoming evident.  
"Tomorrow, 10:00, I think." John told him.  
"Well, I'll certainly be there. Can I rely on you being there, small man?"  
"Of course."  
They parted ways at the top of the winding staircase, but John gave Chris his room number, and promised him they'd accompany each other to rugby trials.  
Strangely, John thought, it hadn't grated like it had with previous friends when Chris called him 'my little friend' or 'small man'. John supposed that he hadn't minded because Chris had said it affectionately, as if to tell John they were friends. He had reached the room, so he took out his key and let himself in.  
When he opened the door, Sherlock didn't move.  
"Who did you speak to? No, wait. Rugby player, plays in the scrum. Friendly enough to approach you and say hello, confident, too. Similar to you, judging by the way you have accepted him-"  
"You haven't even opened your eyes, how can you know all this already?"  
"Come on, John. It's not exactly difficult. Chris North?"  
"Yes- wait, how the hell did you know that?"  
"I know things about the people in this godforsaken school, it's not hard to join the personality dots, as it were."  
"Amazing. Really, just amazing."  
John sat down on his bed and opened a book, hoping to read a few chapters in the few hours before lights out.  
The sky grew slowly darker, and time for lights out came nearer. John went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth, grabbing his pyjamas and changing into them. When he returned, Sherlock was still draped across his bed, but had changed into a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms.  
John's first thought was that his earlier estimation was correct. Sherlock was painfully thin. John could have counted his ribs from the bathroom door.  
"Do you eat at all?"  
Sherlock looked at him, his head to one side.  
"Of course. I'd be dead if I didn't."  
"Yes, I know, but..."  
John shook himself, wishing he'd never asked, and climbed into bed. Sherlock unfolded his long legs and slipped into the bathroom.  
John took his phone from the bedside table and checked his messages. There was one from his mum. John sat for a minute before opening it.  
For some reason, he felt like opening the message would bring the real world back in, when John felt he was happy in this microcosmic school, with Sherlock, the eccentric genius, and Chris, the gentle giant, and whoever else was sat in their rooms, waiting for morning.  
He sighed deeply, then opened the message.  
John,  
I hope you're settling in well! How is the school? It all looked very fancy, you'll have to tell me all about it. Harry's coming over for the weekend. Speak soon,  
Mum  
X  
"So your sister's going to see the family?"  
John jumped. He looked up; he hadn't seen Sherlock come in. The tall boy was leaning on the bathroom doorframe.  
"Don't you think it's a little convenient that you leave the day before she decides to pay a visit? No, she's avoiding you, in particular. What have you done to make her treat you like that? You don't seem the malicious kind, so I'd assume she did something to you."  
"I really don't want to talk about it."  
"Really? Because all you people ever seem to do is talk. You must want to talk about it."  
"No, I really don't."  
"Oh." Sherlock fell silent. John felt a little bad, he was clearly rooming with a very intelligent young man, and he should respect that.  
"Very good, though." He tried.  
"What?"  
"Your observations, deductions, whatever you want to call it."  
"Thank you." John still felt bad, so he opened up a little.  
"Harry drinks. She left home a little while back, and she really hurt mum. Emotionally, that is. That really didn't sit well with me."  
"A man of morals."  
"I'm sorry?"  
"You. You're clearly very respectable, you have high expectations of people, good morals."  
"Do you think you could stop that? That deducing-as-we-speak thing?"  
Sherlock hesitated. His uppity demeanour slipped, revealing a vulnerable face beneath it all, then his facade returned, all in a split second. John hadn't missed a thing, and Sherlock saw this.  
"Fine." The dark haired boy stalked over to his bed and flopped melodramatically down, then rolled over and feigned sleep. After a minute, John too curled up to sleep.  
What John saw had confused him. He had had Sherlock pegged as an arrogant git with one too many brain cells for his own good. Then his subject had unwittingly revealed a defenceless, raw side to himself.  
As sleep overcame him, John considered befriending Sherlock, but decided Sherlock probably had loads of friends, being that clever, and anyway, why would Sherlock want to be friends with him?  
***  
"John."  
John stirred slightly. He shifted, then rolled back to where he had been lying.  
"John."  
This time John nearly woke up fully. He stretched, grunted, shuffled, then flopped back on the bed.  
"John."  
"Goawaywhattimeisitanyway?" John mumbled, still groggy.  
"9:14am, and Chris is coming at 9:30."  
"Jesus." John rolled gracelessly over the side of the bed. "Rugby trials."  
He grabbed his shorts and rugby jersey, along with clean underwear, and stumbled into the bathroom. There, he undressed, redressed, and completed the morning routine, without fully waking up.  
When he got back to the room, rubbing sleep from his eyes, Sherlock was still on his bed, fully dressed in smart trousers and a purple shirt. he completed the look with a pair of black converse high top shoes.  
"Are you going anywhere today? I mean, it's Saturday, so you have today and tomorrow, are you seeing friends, or something..." John trailed off when Sherlock gave him an icy glare. "You do have a friend to go along with, don't you?"  
"No, John." He spat. "I don't have friends." With that, he climbed to his feet and breezed from the room, grabbing his black trench coat and deep blue scarf on the way.  
"Wow." John muttered to the slammed door. He couldn't decide whether Sherlock was being sarcastic, but something about what he had said seemed genuine. There was bitterness in his voice.  
There was a knock at the door.  
"It's open." John called, and a sandy head appeared around the frame. Chris' face cracked into a smile when he saw John's shirt.  
"Harlequins, huh?"  
"Who else?" John laughed. "Please don't tell me you're a Leicester boy."  
"Of course not! Nah, I support Scarlets. My dad's welsh, I've been brought up following the Llanelli religion." John had to grin. He could have guessed from the moderate welsh accent his friend possessed.  
"Good. Are you ready?"  
"Absolutely. You?"  
"I just need to grab my gum shield..." John shuffled through his drawer, before grabbing a circular transparent case, in which sat his blue gum shield.  
"Let's get going." John locked the door behind him and followed Chris down to the rugby pitches he had inspected earlier. They grabbed some toast from the canteen on their way. It was a good day for rugby, cold but not frozen, not raining or snowing, clear skies.  
John smiled to himself as he surveyed the boys who had already turned up. As he and Chris walked up, a tall, broad shouldered man turned to see them.  
"Another two for the team. You'd better be forwards, we're a bit short at the moment." They were greeted by a thick New Zealand accent, from a man who introduced himself as Kelly. He played at flanker, but was the only forward there, at the time of their arrival.  
Chris and John introduced themselves, then were introduced to Richard, the full back, Charlie, a winger, Steven, the outside centre, and Douglas, a brash Scotsman who played fly half.  
They were all trialling for the first team, as it turned out, and those who didn't make the cut would be substitutes. Another three boys walked up as they spoke.  
"Are you forwards? Our scrum is made up of three at the moment, and I'm sorry, but that isn't going to win any balls." Kelly asked the newcomers.  
"It's your lucky day. I'm James, back row, I don't mind playing at flank or 8. These two are Ben and Dan, twins, you may have guessed, and they play prop."  
The team surveyed the huge twins, and Kelly nodded. "You three will do nicely. Any idea where our third back row and other lock are?"  
"We're also missing an inside centre, scrum half, and another wing." Douglas noted.  
"Will I do?" The team turned to locate the new voice, which belonged to a tall, narrow boy named Luke. "I play winger, if you'll take me?"  
"Consider yourself taken." Kelly gestured to all of the assembled boys, who shook hands and introduced themselves one by one.  
The coaches arrived next, three of them. There was head coach Mike, forwards coach Ed, and backs coach Sandy.  
Steven picked up a ball and started passing it around, so they started the warm up without the extra players. As they played they were joined by Henry, the scrum half, and Tim, the lock.  
Chris and Tim got on incredibly well, practicing their tackling on each other, laughing and joking. John joined in, but paused when he caught sight of the inside centre.  
The boy who made his way up the pitch was, there's no other word for it, enormous. He must have been getting on for 7ft tall, broad shouldered, but he moved his considerable bulk with ease. He was only slightly smaller than the props.  
"Alastair Somerset. I go by Ali." He said with a smile, shaking hands with everyone. "I'm here for inside centre, if she's still going."  
"You're welcome to it." Douglas looked somewhat surprised at the size of his teammate, but he didn't comment.  
Later, seeing Ali's pace and ball handling skills, the boys wondered exactly how he could be the size he was, and move at the speed he did.  
He was a shy boy, who preferred just to get the job done, and not mince around the real issues. He was a solid tackler, with good hands and a fast, clean pass.  
After a few minutes was when the big centre started to come out of his shell. He was a fun guy, with good humour and quick wit. He brought the whole team out in fits on two or three occasions.  
John spoke to him now and again, but Ali mostly stayed close to Henry, the scrum half, tiny compared to Ali. Ali watched the little scrum half with something similar to awe, and spoke to him whenever they took a break.  
John found himself relaxing with the characters around him. They were fun and energetic, but with a sensitive layer within them. John wondered if maybe he had finally found some friends.


	3. Further Analysis

Sherlock watched John and the rugby team from the tree. He was trying to get extra details about John, because what he had been provided with was sadly inadequate. John was too complicated. He wanted to solve John, to unravel the complex puzzle, but at the same time, he didn't. Solving John would make him boring, and he didn't want John to leave.

As they all had before.

John seemed different. One of those people with good in his actions. Sherlock watched him with the other young men on the rugby pitch and observed.

Watching, he saw each man as they approached, and worked out which ones were good, and which ones weren't. Kelly was an interesting character. All but rejected by his close family, his aunt had got him to the school, and he was doing everything to make sure no one found out. Brilliant rugby player, mind you.

Then Douglas, the second boldest person there. He has a girlfriend, sweet little thing, and he loves her dearly. Delightful. Sherlock grunted. Nothing else of interest.

Ali Somerset. The giant centre. Gay. Very openly gay, in fact. But none of the rest team had any idea. How simple it must be in their tiny minds. Intelligent, mocked for his size, sensitive to comments about his weight. And he had a thing for the little scrum half, who he had clearly known in a previous school, but Henry had never noticed him. Not beyond the usual, "wow, you're huge." comments Ali was used to. A fairy tale in the making. Sherlock snorted in disgust.

Chris North. John's closest friend, already. If Sherlock were to try to befriend John, to find out more, of course, he would have to take on some of Chris' demeanours.

Overly cheerful, talkative, impulsive. Doesn't stop to think. Impossible to replicate in any way. Sherlock threw up his hands in disgust. He was on his own in the John experiment, it seemed.

As he surveyed the laughing crowd of boys, he noted another new arrival. Not there to play, but obviously a player himself. Older than John's team, in fact, probably about Mycroft's age...

Speak of the devil. Sherlock smirked as his elder brother emerged from the trees and engaged a rapid conversation with the rugby player. He seemed to sigh, then followed the man and stood beside him as the younger men continued playing.

The team had broken into backs and forwards after the first hour and a half, and John was presently nestled in the heart of a scrum.

Sherlock returned his attention to his brother. The man with him must be Gregory Lestrade, a minor legend among the sportsmen in the school. Lestrade was a supposedly phenomenal rugby player, playing at flank, and was rumoured to have never missed a tackle.

Obviously, this couldn't be true. Although Lestrade was clearly a good player, by his physique and demeanour. An excellent player, in fact. Sherlock also deduced that the man had...feelings...for Mycroft. Sherlock almost laughed aloud as he regarded his elder brother once more, and observed that he was completely oblivious to the feelings Lestrade had, despite having an obvious soft spot for the sportsman.

What a pity. Sherlock wasn't going to be the one to enlighten him. Although this could be useful if he wanted something from his brother.

Sherlock returned his attention to the pitch, where the scrum were driving against a scrummaging machine. The forwards coach, Ed, was sat on the back of it, along with the third prop, extra hooker, and fourth back row, yet the scrum still drove the machine backwards. Sherlock did a quick calculation and marvelled at the amount of force applied by a selection of young men to the solid, heavy machine.

John was in the process of hooking the ball back. Sherlock watched his precision hooking, rolling the ball directly between the two locks with ease.

There was a technical beauty to this brutal sport. A perfectionism that Sherlock liked to see. He would rather be finishing his experiment on the decomposition of blood, but the rugby trials provided a good opportunity to survey his roommate, so he could appreciate the technicality while he watched. 

He glanced at his watch. He had five minutes before the training session ended, and John would probably spend an extra minute or two talking to Chris and Kelly. That gave him seven minutes tops to get back to the room and settle himself in a way that meant it would seem he hadn't moved in the two hours John had been gone.

Sherlock swung down from the tree with the grace of a gymnast, hopping from branch to branch with ease, his coat fluttering behind him. He landed on the grass, brushed down his coat and tightened his scarf, then took off for the main building.

Sherlock had always been proud of his speed, it had saved him from many a battering from whichever bully was in the mood. He reached the doors in under a minute, darted through the door to the boys' dorms, and launched himself up the stairs two at a time.

He deftly unlocked the door and slipped inside. Grabbing five thick books from his desk, Sherlock sprawled on the bed, one book open at an unknown page. The others he scattered around him; one on the floor, two on the bed, one on the bedside table.

John arrived barely a minute later.

"Hi, Sherlock."

"Good morning."

"Where did you go before I left?" Sherlock hadn't anticipated the question, and so replied with the most transparent response that came to him.

"Nowhere." Inwardly, Sherlock cursed himself.

"That's not true. Is it private? I can stop asking, if you want-"

"I went to see an enemy about a debt." Partially true. He had gone to see an enemy before he had gone to see John.

"Oh. Okay." John seemed taken aback. He edged into the bathroom and shut the door. After a minute, the shower came on.

Sherlock tried to read the book in front of him, but the words kept blurring and he couldn't focus. He couldn't push thoughts of John from his head. After a few minutes, the shower shut off, and Sherlock still couldn't clear his thoughts. With a growl of frustration, he tossed his book to the side.

"Are you okay?" John asked from the doorway. Sherlock twisted himself around so he could look at John. Who was wearing nothing but a towel around his waist.

Sherlock nodded while silently taking in John's sculpted chest, muscular stomach and powerful shoulders. Then he inwardly shook himself, wishing he weren't so distracted as he was at the moment. He put it down to a momentary blip in his usually resolute concentration. All the same, it was an inconvenient blip, and he willed it away.

John's hair was tousled and damp, sticking up in places, and a trickle of water had run down the side of his face. Sherlock got so immersed in admiring John that he completely missed what was said next.

"Sherlock? You still there?" Sherlock chastised himself for staring at his subject, then blinked twice.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I asked if you play any sport. I don't have crazy deductive talents like you, so you just have to tell me."

Sherlock liked John's voice. It was warm and kind, but had a rough edge to it. He hadn't liked anyone's voice before then. They were all too gritty or nasal or brittle or posh. "No. I don't do sport. I do research, and experiments, and things worth my while."

Sherlock saw John bristle as he casually brushed off the value of sport. Interesting. John clearly held sport close to his heart. You already knew that, a voice in his head corrected. The cricket and the rugby, obvious. An idea began to form in Sherlock's head. It would provide a perfect opportunity to observe John from a close angle, and provide a different environment for viewing, without the discomfort of sitting in the tree. Only one sport fit his needs directly.

"Although..." Sherlock continued, "I was considering the values of sport, and I wondered if, perhaps, you could introduce me to rugby?"

"I thought sport had no value to you?" John couldn't follow Sherlock's change of heart, that much was obvious.

Sherlock sighed. "You read too much into people's speech. You assume. Never assume. Just because I do other things worth my while instead, doesn't mean that sport itself is not worthwhile. In fact, one of my experiments showed that sport-"

"Okay, Sherlock, I get it. I'll introduce you to the team. We need a spare lock, centre and winger. You're too narrow for lock, I doubt you're strong enough either. Your drive compared to Chris' would rotate the scrum."

"I am quite strong, actually-"

"Sherlock." John gave Sherlock a look that said drop it, you really aren't as strong as Chris or Tim. So Sherlock dropped it. Much to his own and John's surprise. "Can you run?"

"Of course I can run I'm a human being-" 

"Sherlock! You know what I'm asking, so cut the sarcasm and answer, for once." Sherlock made a sound similar to a growl when John cut him off again.

"I can run."

"Quickly?"

"Yes."

"How quickly for how long?"

"I can run the 100m in 11.01 seconds. My recovery time means I can run that speed every two minutes, without total rest."

John gaped. "Wow, that's...something."

"Winger?"

"Winger."


	4. First Steps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special mention to TheNerdHerdIsComing for the fabulous library she wrote for me, it's truly, truly magnificent.

Sherlock spent the rest of the day thinking. As a winger, he could survey the whole team with ease. He wouldn't always be necessary to the phase of play, so he could see John in a different environment. 

Sherlock thought about what John had said. We need a spare lock, centre and winger. This meant that Sherlock would only be used as a spare. This would not do. The substitutes' bench would not provide a good working environment.

John had seemed impressed by Sherlock's pace, but that alone wouldn't get him a place on the first team. No, he needed to have the skills. Passing would pose no issue, the maths was simple; ball is oval, must go backwards.

Tackling... This was where the problem lay. Sherlock thought for a bit, then got up and slipped into his coat.

John was reading a book, and tracked Sherlock's movement as Sherlock crossed the room.

"Where are you going?"

"Library." Sherlock replied quickly. 

John acknowledged this. "Want me to come with you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm quite capable of reading on my own, thank you."

John raised an eyebrow, then returned to his book.

Sherlock breezed from the room, the door clicking shut behind him. 

He ran down the stairs and into the main foyer of the school, then pushed through the door on the opposite side of the room.

Three corridors confronted him. He rolled his eyes, he had had access to the school through Mycroft for a long time, by now, and knew the route by heart. He turned sharp left, then slipped down a narrow, winding corridor - shortcut - before taking two right turns in rapid succession. 

He came to a plain black door, much like all the others in the school.

The library was magnificent. There was simply no other word for it. Concealed behind the understated doorway lay a world of mystique and magic. The age of the room was evident; the high, panelled ceilings, graceful windows tumbling from the top of the wall all the way to the carpeted floor, and the smell - not musty and not at all unpleasant, but the smell of experience, of generations of books, old and new, being thumbed in a kind of feverish delight which seems common to those who love books, and as any book lover will know, cannot quite be paralleled by any other experience.

Upon entering, through the rabbit hole which the doorway had become, the reader was presented with a small open space, which was clearly the reception, if you will. The floor was lined with a plush carpet of deepest red, understated and yet almost a breathing part of the library, as though it was the lifeblood of all the books which had given their souls to the great mahogany shelves, stretching far farther than the eye could see, a great mahogany labyrinth of knowledge which even the bravest scholars thought twice about entering. The story was that a boy in his first year had been lost in there for three days, finally finding his way out when he recognised a book on the application of thermodynamic equations to the aerospace industry. It was an entirely believable statement. Had they been keeping a Minotaur hidden away amongst the books on theoretical quantum mechanics, it was unlikely anyone would have noticed.

Golden sunlight streamed through the windows, playing over the spines as though the sun, too, was overwhelmed by choice and wanted nothing more than to spend the day browsing, wondering at the multitude of subjects covered. Rays of sunlight arced across the librarian's desk, settling on the librarian, a perfectly pleasant woman uninterested in interrogating any of her readers, an arrangement that suited most. The beams of light continued, reaching the bottom of the staircase, where they hesitated, unsure whether to go on, afraid to find more books, such was the scale of this great cathedral to learning. 

The staircase was beautiful, like everything else in the room; a structure of wood, glass, and deep red carpet, sweeping upwards into the embellished ceiling. One could almost see the stroke of the architect's pencil which had conceived it. Venturing upstairs, the library presented yet more books, so many now that it would almost be possible to believe that the sculpted walls contained every book that had ever been written. 

Should you bring yourself to plunge into this maze of fairy tale and fact, you would be presented with a near insurmountable challenge; where to start? Initially, the eye is caught by one book, then another, then another, drawing you inexorably deeper into the spiralling pattern of wood, paper, and word. 

Should you come across a wall, the end of a bookshelf, a dead end, you would find a desk, made of the same deep wood as the shelves, as though the tree that fell in the name of its construction had not quite died, and from its roots had sprung a place where one could enjoy the books which it had protected. Each one of these desks bore a computer, a modern model, but one which was rarely used as most students were too busy marvelling at the books they had discovered. It was very rare to discover a desk which was in use - the vast scale of the library meant that it was simply a very unlikely event.

What was even more unlikely, through, was finding Sherlock Holmes in the library, despite the amount of time that he would spend there. Even if one was successful in searching out the chemistry section, nestled deep in the heart of the upstairs section of the library, and even if one was searching for him, the odds of him being found were slim. Sherlock had sequested himself away in the best possible hiding place, and so far, no one had ever found him there - not even Mycroft.

His space was located next to a window, so was usually filled with light, and combined with its privacy (reaching it involved squeezing between two bookcases, a near impossible task, even for someone as slim as Sherlock) this leant it a cosy air. Over time, Sherlock had smuggled in all kinds of beanbags and cushions, which now lined the floor and rendered the desk chair virtually obsolete; its only purpose now was to hold books. 

There were books everywhere. Unlike the rest of the library, which was mostly neat and orderly, this little corner had been introduced to Sherlock and it had gone downhill from there. Most of the books had been read, but Sherlock kept them, perhaps out of utility, but more likely due to the sentimental side he normally kept suppressed. The truth was, reading was one of the few things that Sherlock admitted he loved, and this was the main reason for the chaos. The desk groaned under the weight of books. There were stacks of books everywhere, between beanbags, on top of cushions. A minor collapse at one end of this hiding place had left books scattered across the floor, haphazardly. The shelves all around, once organised according to the library system, now bent to Sherlock's will, organised by his very own index, a complex system which other normal people would struggle to comprehend. Even atop the bookcases, in the tiny gap between them and the ceiling books were crammed. And not just library books; on one particular shelf there rested notebooks, filled with notes, observations, the occasional loose sheet where a document had "gone missing" and found itself in Sherlock's possession. 

For this was were he came to think - the one truly private place in the entire school which he could call his own, and know that he would not be disturbed.

He checked all his books and cushions were still where he had put them in the summer holidays, when Mycroft's place in the school had allowed him unlimited access to the facilities, then slipped away between the shelves.

It didn't take long to find the sports section. Sherlock was quite proud of how well he knew the library, a maze that had swallowed many students for days. The alphabetised shelves and orderly stacks allowed Sherlock to specify to the rugby section in minutes. From there, he scanned the spines, pulling books from the shelves one by one.

Slipping the IRB beginner's guide to rugby onto the top of his pile, Sherlock wove back through the library, diverting from his usual route to avoid a reader. When he squeezed between the shelves that shut off his little area, he flopped down, spilling the books around him.

Taking up the Rugby Union Manual - A Complete Guide to Playing the Game, Sherlock felt a bit ridiculous. Never before and never again would he need to use such a simplistic manual. Strange, how John Watson had put him in the first situation he didn't truly understand. Sherlock filed away this newfound information for further analysis at a later date. 

For now... Sherlock sighed, and began to read.


	5. The Library and What Occurred There

John rolled over. He checked his phone, and the time read 19:17. Dinner was at 19:30, so John got up and walked to the door. He slipped his jacket over his shoulders, and was just leaving when he remembered.

Sherlock.

How could he have forgotten the boy with the raven curls. Sherlock hadn't returned from his trip to the library, and John didn't want to butt in, but Sherlock probably needed something to eat.

John jogged down the stairs and crossed the foyer, passing through the door on the opposite side of the room.

He faced the three corridors. From the morning, he knew the way to the canteen. He paused for a second. He also knew the way to the library. John stood still for a moment, other students milling around him, then turned sharp left.

He took a little while finding the library, taking three wrong turns and going into one wrong room, before he came to the black wooden door that Sherlock had passed through.

Pushing through the doorway, John felt all the breath leave his lungs in one, awestruck, whoosh. The towering shelves, the crimson carpets, the twisting staircase to a second floor, containing more shelves, more books, more desks, which lay littered around.

John took this in in a second. He then approached the librarian, a gentle woman with a warm smile. 

"Do you know if Sherlock Holmes is here? Tall boy, dark, curly hair?"

"Oh, I know Sherlock." The woman cocked an eyebrow. "He's in there somewhere. Upstairs, but deep in the shelves. You'll struggle to find him, but if you want to try..." She gestured to the upstairs section of the library with one broad sweep of her arm. John studied the maze and acknowledged the challenge, then realised he had already made a subconscious decision. 

"Thank you. I think I'll search for him. He needs to come to dinner."

"Oh, he doesn't tend to bother with meal times. When he came before, he would spend whole days in his little cubby hole, wherever that may be... But he'd spend all day every day for about a week."

"Really?" John raised an incredulous eyebrow. "I think I'll find him anyway."

"Suit yourself." The woman shrugged and John made his way to the foot of the staircase. As he climbed, he trailed a hand along the polished wood handrail. It was smooth and flawless under his palm.

At the top of the stairs, John only paused for a split second to orientate himself, then he dived in. It didn't look too complex, and the shelves weren't too tightly packed...

18 minutes and 27 seconds later, John was regretting his decision. As it turned out, the shelves got more and more tightly packed, and the route John had taken to get in there had vanished from his mind. So he turned endless corners, getting hopelessly lost.

But it's a library! He thought. How can you get lost in a school library? And so far, he hadn't come across another human being, never mind the particular curly haired boy he was looking for. He hadn't seen a trace of Sherlock Holmes.

John worked himself into a frenzy, turning corner after corner, completely unaware of his location. He whirled around the end of one bookshelf, and walked smack into another. Reeling, John lifted a hand to his nose, hoping it wouldn't start bleeding. To his right was a desk, so he slumped into the chair, cradling his bruised nose, and feeling utterly useless.

"John?" John jumped about a foot then leapt to his feet, spinning around and nearly cracking his head on another shelf but for a long, slender arm that was stretched defensively out before him.

"Sherlock. I have been looking for you all over this godforsaken library, and in return, it has been trying to kill me."

"Not everywhere. If you were keeping track of what shelves you passed, you would know that you've been running between four or five of the same shelves."

"Really?"

"Really." John sighed. He took in the pile of books under Sherlock's arm.

"Metal nitrates and their uses?"

Sherlock gave John a look.

"Indeed."

"Okay." John stood awkwardly for a moment. "I suppose you know the way out, then?"

"I don't need to go to dinner, John." 

"How did you- yes you do." John stated.

"I ate yesterday. I have no need for any more food, it slows down my brain functions."

"That's not true." John made a mental note to get Sherlock to as many mealtimes as possible. This was clearly the root of his thinness.

"John."

"No, don't give me any of that 'brain function' crap. You need some food."

"John."

"I'm a doctor in training! I know about how the body functions with too little food."

"John."

"You're too thin. It's not healthy."

"John, you're a doctor."

"Yes, I am."

"How do you fix a nosebleed?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow in a way which said he knew exactly how to deal with a nosebleed, and was asking for a different reason.

"Why?" John asked, narrowing his eyes.

"You have one, and that is-was a rather nice shirt."

John glanced down at his pale yellow polo neck. Sure enough, there were a few drops of dark crimson spotting it.

"Oh, Jesus." John pinched the bridge of his nose and tipped his head forwards. "Do you have a-"

Sherlock pushed a wad of neatly folded tissues into his free hand. John grunted his thanks and held them up to his nose.

"We need to go, Sherlock. To dinner." John's voice was muffled through the tissues.

"I think you're rather more in need of a sink and some water, at the moment."

"Sherlock..." John warned.

"We're going back to the room. You are cleaning your nose up, and then we can go from there."

"Okay." John relented.

Sherlock lead John back through the shelves with a practiced ease. John kept his face tilted downwards to stem the flow of blood from his nose, so Sherlock held a hand out behind him in John's line of sight so John could follow him easily.

Back at the room, Sherlock flopped onto his bed and John slipped into the bathroom. His nose had stopped bleeding, but the dried blood was caked around his nostrils and on his top lip. He sighed and filled the sink with water.

Two minutes later, the water was a cloudy red, and John had cleaned the last of the blood from his bruised nose.

Sherlock poked his head hesitantly around the door. "Are you... Are you okay?"

"Fine, thanks. I'm all cleaned up, so we can head down to dinner."

"John..." Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I really don't need to go to dinner."

"Yes, you do." John put his hand at the small of Sherlock's back and steered him to the door, noting how Sherlock flinched, ever so slightly, at the physical contact.

John grabbed his jacket and tossed Sherlock's long Belstaff at him. At the door, John gave Sherlock one last shove and Sherlock relented, walking out of the room unaided. Together they left the dorms and went to dinner.


	6. A Selection of Delicate Women

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!   
> Sorry for the late update, I don't really know what happened... I fell asleep, then forgot about two days actually existing, then I thought I'd posted it, but I hadn't, but-  
> Ah, just read it, 'kay? It won't happen again.  
> Love yous  
> ~The Effect xx

John awoke to a beautiful sound. He didn't open his eyes, just stayed still and let the note thrum through his body. The unwavering sound resonated deep inside John, and he smiled, feeling a warmth settling in his bones.

The note changed, rising then falling, and John placed the instrument. A violin.

He cracked open his eyes, wanting to know the source of the alluring music. He was rewarded with the sight of his tall roommate's back. Sherlock had the violin propped expertly under his chin and he moved the bow with a delicate respect, as though he and the instrument were one. His curls were tousled, though John doubted he had slept, given the fact he was still dressed as he had been after dinner the previous day.

John's phone informed him that it was 3:44. Far too early to be awake, but John didn't care, just so long as Sherlock didn't stop playing. 

When Sherlock finished his piece, John nearly whimpered at the lack of sound in the room.

First day of lessons, he thought. Brilliant.

Chemistry, French, free, maths, free. A good day, but not one he was necessarily ready for...

"Good morning, John."

"Only just." John's voice was blurred with sleep.

"We have chemistry and maths together."

"Oh. Really. Your violin...ing, that was good. Really good." John thought he should probably shut up an let his brain wake up before he made a complete fool of himself.

"Thank you." Sherlock replied, slowly, as if unused to it.

"Chemistry. Chemistry..." John rolled over. "I need to shower. I need to get out of this bed at some point. I don't want to." John sighed deeply. He realised he was talking to himself, but chose to ignore that fact. Hopefully, mindless waffle would return Sherlock to his violin, and John could listen once again to the beautiful music his roommate could conjure from a bow and strings.

Eventually, and with much melodrama, John heaved himself from the bed. The only thing which kept him shuffling to the bathroom was the thought of the kettle he had seen in the common room the day before.

Shower, downstairs, tea. He repeated the mantra in his head as he gathered his clothes for the day and slipped into the bathroom. As the door closed behind him, Sherlock returned to his violin.

The shower freshened John up significantly, and by the time he had finished his much anticipated cup of tea, he felt just about ready to face the day.

Sherlock joined him in the common room wearing a thin white shirt and black jeans, finished by a pair of black converse high tops. He gratefully accepted the cup of tea John had poured for him.

They sat in respectful silence. It was early, so the common room was empty, except for the occasional person passing through. Sherlock studied John over the rim of his teacup. John studied right back.

Even after the tea was finished, John tried to make sense of his enigmatic roommate. 

They headed back to their room to get their things, and not a word was spoken until John decided to break the silence.

"Chemistry."

"Yes."

"Where?"

"I'll show you. It's very easy to remember, even you shouldn't find it too hard."

John raised an eyebrow, but followed loyally behind Sherlock. He felt a sense of déjà vu from the previous day, when Sherlock had held his hand out behind him, just so John could see his way. For some reason, this struck him as unbelievably thoughtful.

Jerking back out of his thoughts, Sherlock gestured to the door. 

"Thank you."

"I had to come here anyway, you just followed."

"Yes, well." John was at a slight loss.

"Are you going to go in?"

"Yes, sorry." John pushed open the door, and was surprised to find two people already seated. Clearly, Sherlock and he weren't the only early risers in the school.

John didn't recognise either of them, one male, one female. The girl had long, midnight black hair, pulled back into a tight ponytail, and warm, dark blue eyes, set in a pale but beautiful face. She had high cheekbones and soft lips, and a straight, long nose.

The boy was small and slight, with glasses and a mop of white blond hair. His eyes were dark brown.

Sherlock and John took seats, John subconsciously sitting away from the heart of the attention at the back of the room.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" Sherlock twisted in his seat.

"Do you have a free, third?"

"Yes." Sherlock didn't hesitate. Of course he already knew his timetable by heart.

"The girls' rugby team are training then, and they've got a match at the weekend."

"Yes. What point are you trying to make?"

"Well, the boys' team are going to show their support at the match, and a little group of us are going down to watch the training."

"Yes?"

John sighed. Did he have to spell it out? "Do you want to come?"

Sherlock looked momentarily taken aback, but then responded with typical snark. "If I have nothing better to do."

John rolled his eyes. The pretty girl in the row in front of them turned around. "Are you coming to watch the girls?"

"Um, yeah, why?"

"I'm the right winger."

"Oh, right...I'm John, this is Sherlock."

"I'm Diana." She extended a hand, which John shook. "Another couple of the girls should be here soon. Actually, the twins have chemistry this period."

"Twins?" John was curious.

"Svetlana and Iveta. They're our hooker and inside centre respectively. Iveta is the captain, and Svetlana is pack leader."

"Russian names?" 

"Of course. They were born in Russia to Russian parents. They moved here when they were 7, but both speak fluent Russian and English. They speak Russian to each other."

"Right." John liked Diana. He found her friendly and clever. Sherlock seemed to be regarding her with something close to confusion.

"Look, they're here. Oh, and don't try to mess them around."

"What? Why?" John asked.

"They're captain and vice captain of the rugby team. They might be girls, but... just be nice."

The twins were identical. They both had long, wavy, ivory blonde hair, and ice-blue eyes, high but soft cheekbones, and pronounced lips. They had arched eyebrows and long, dark lashes, and all their features were set on pale, smooth skin.

They were below average height, and quietly muscular, only noticeable by the tight, scarlet shirt worn by one of the twins. They moved with a lithe elegance reserved for ballerinas and tightrope walkers.

They walked over, smiling synchronised perfect smiles at Diana, and regarding John and Sherlock cooly.

Before they got close enough, John whispered to Diana. "How can I tell which one is which?"

"You've got to be quite observant." Sherlock's attention visibly increased. "There's one thing different about them, as far as we can tell. Let me know if you see it at the end of the lesson."

The twins took seats to Diana's right, directly in front of Sherlock and John. With one glance, John could see Sherlock studying the two girls, taking everything in with a flicker of his eyes.

Diana smiled at John. "Svetlana, Iveta, this is John and Sherlock."

John smiled as the girls looked him up and down, their faces emotionless. In sync, they met his eyes, and their faces broke into warm smiles.

"Pleased to meet you." said the girl in the tight red shirt. "I am Iveta, the older sister."

Iveta had a friendly, sonorous voice, with a soft trace of a Russian accent, and her face became cheerful and kind when she smiled. 

"I may be younger, but I am far better at everything." Svetlana's voice was exactly the same as her sister's. John smiled at them both. After all, they were kind of beautiful...

"Nose." John turned his head to look at Sherlock.

"I'm sorry?" Svetlana asked. Behind her, Diana gave Sherlock a thumbs up.

"Svetlana's nose has been broken twice, and has set slightly wonky, to the right, see." Sherlock traced his finger down Svetlana's nose, highlighting the slight kink in it. Svetlana seemed to flinch back, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Iveta has broken her nose only once, but it has set worse, and juts to the left, here." Sherlock did the same to Iveta, running his long finger over her nose. She smiled coyly, unflinching.

"You are very clever, my friend." Iveta purred. Sherlock inclined his head.

At that moment, a tall, dark blond haired woman walked into the room. She surveyed the class, small though it was, then began the lesson.

After an hour of advanced chemistry, John knew that both the Russian girls were single, and that Diana had a long term boyfriend. She wouldn't say who.

Sherlock said barely anything, but didn't appear to be paying attention to the lesson, either. John listened to what the teacher was saying, took notes, and asked questions. By the end of the lesson, John felt he had a good understanding of the topic they had covered.

John had French after chemistry, and as he stood to leave, one of the twins told him they did too. He spent a moment trying to work out which one it was. Deciding it was probably Svetlana, John walked from the lesson together.

Sherlock vanished as soon as they left the room. Diana hung back. John didn't know whether to leave her or not, but decided it would be rude to abandon her. 

"Diana, can I walk you to your lesson?"

Diana smiled. "That's really sweet of you, John, but I'm waiting for someone else."

"Okay then." Just as John turned to leave with Svetlana, he saw a familiar figure. 

Chris stopped in front of Diana, then wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on the cheek. Diana was tall, but Chris still had to bend down. He whispered something to her, then straightened up. Extending a hand, he started to walk in the opposite direction to the way John was going. Diana slipped her hand into his, and they disappeared around a corner.

Smiling, John and Svetlana made their way to French.


	7. Sherlock Mingles

Lesson 2 went by in a blur, in which John decided that the teacher was nice, but scatterbrained. He and Svetlana sat together, spending the lesson finding out more about each other, in between taking notes. By the end of the period, John headed up to his room, parting ways with the pretty Russian at the door to the boys dorm.

He met Chris at his door, leaning against the frame. John opened the door and entered, Chris following him.

"So, you coming?" Chris asked, pushing the door shut behind him with his foot.

"Of course. It should be good fun."

"Hmm."

"And Sherlock said he'd come if he had nothing better to do, arrogant sod."

"Sherlock?"

"Oh, you haven't met, have you? It's because he talks about you, he knows you. I forgot you've never actually met." John smiled.

"He knows me?" Chris raised a suspicious eyebrow.

"Oh, you wait until you meet him. He'll tell you all those things that are supposed to be private are not so private."

"How the hell?"

"Just, go and talk to him. You'll see what I mean."

Chris rolled his eyes as John changed shirts and grabbed his jacket, and they headed down to the pitches they had trained on earlier in the week.

The girls team were already training, and Tim, the other lock, was leaning on the white railing at the edge of the pitch. He was following the training drill intently, his chin propped on one hand, so didn't notice Chris and John's arrival.

"Tim." Chris said, causing Tim to jump. "What are you so fascinated by?"

Tim blushed furiously, but covered himself. "I was just interested in this drill. It's really good to see the girls moving the ball through their hands."

John arched a sceptical eyebrow, but his further questions were halted as Kelly arrived.

"Stop tormenting poor little Tim, boys." The corners of Kelly's mouth quirked up.

"Ahem. Not little." Tim gave Kelly a look, from about four inches above him.

Kelly just laughed. "So, how's Diana?" He turned to Chris.

"She's fine." Chris kept his gaze fixed on the training session.

"How fine?" Tim pushed.

Chris turned around. "She's marvellous. She's still as witty, and intelligent, and beautiful, and vicious as when I first met her."

"Okay... Good." Kelly replied. John chipped in.

"Have you got a girlfriend, then, Kelly?"

"Nah, I'm single, and proud." Kelly puffed his chest out and smiled.

"Tim?"

"Oh, no."

"That's because you've got your eyes on someone in particular, though, isn't it?" John placed the baritone voice the moment it began speaking. Sherlock had decided to grace them with his presence, after all.

"Chris, Kelly, Tim, this is Sherlock. He's my roommate, and he's considering taking up rugby."

"Nice to meet you." Chris said. Sherlock said nothing. He was still staring at Tim.

"Timothy Wood, wealthy family, no need for a scholarship, two older brothers, you've grown up in their shadow and it's made you shy and quiet. Where some people would feel resentment, you feel resigned. Shame."

John muttered to Chris. "Told you. You wait until he gets to something exciting."

"And," Sherlock continued, "you have no girlfriend, yes, you're heterosexual, but you have your eyes on a particular young lady, here somewhere..." Sherlock scanned the field of play.

"Please don't." Tim said.

"Don't what?" Sherlock asked, not taking his eyes off the girls' team.

"Tell them who it is I like. That's private."

"But it's obvious." Sherlock said, his eyes finally landing on Tim's crush. "She likes you, too."

"No she doesn't." Tim said, looking at his feet. "She doesn't even look at me."

"Oh, she does. I touched her face in chemistry, and she flinched back, but her sister didn't, showing that she has someone else who she's rather was with her."

"But how do you know that's me?"

"She has been glancing over to see if you're looking every thirty seconds for the past three minutes."

"Really?" Tim lifted his head and moved to the rail, waving across the field as he met her gaze. A blushing Svetlana waved back.

"What about you, John? Got a girlfriend?" Chris asked, elbowing John in the ribs.

"Of course he hasn't." Sherlock stated.

"Right." Chris shot John a confused look. "Why not, exactly?"

"Chris..." John tried to halt the inevitable.

"He's gay." Sherlock stated, in the same way he would say that the weather was nice, or the rugby was good.

John went an alarming shade of scarlet, his gaze shifting to intently study a piece of grass at his feet.

There was silence for a moment and Sherlock turned around. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, Sherlock, you're fine." John said in a level voice. It looked like he was going to lose all his friends once again.

In previous schools, John had had friends, all of whom had deserted him, either when he told them he was gay, or when the changing schools came between them, and no one had bothered to try and keep in touch.

If John was brutally honest, most of them had vanished when he first came out.

He was startled out of his reverie by Kelly's kiwi twang.

"That's not a problem." He stated, bluntly. "We've chosen you to be friends with already, your sexuality doesn't matter."

John was surprised. Kelly was the first, Chris agreed with him, and Tim was too busy watching Svetlana to notice.

Feeling a warmth spreading in his gut, John stopped short for a moment.

"Wait, Sherlock, do you have a girlfriend?" He asked, anxious to move the attention away from himself.

"Not really my area." Sherlock made eye contact as he said this, and John felt a spark jump between them. But as soon as it had appeared, it was gone, and all their eyes were back on the training game the girls were now playing.

Sherlock left not long later, declaring that he had better things to be doing. John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's navy covered back.

Chris cocked his head. "He's an odd one, Sherlock, isn't he?"

"Yeah. All that and more."

"But you like him." It wasn't a question, but John answered.

"Of course I like him, he's a nice guy. Just in different ways to people like you or Kelly."

"Well, if you think he's nice, I agree. My first impression was a bit odd, but I think he grows on you. He seems like that kind of guy."

"I don't think he's ever grown on anyone before. I'm not sure he knows what friends are, entirely."

"Really?" Chris sounded genuinely surprised.

"Yeah. He seems pretty lonely, and he doesn't know where to put himself when he's in social situations. He didn't have anything better to do, just now, he was uncomfortable being around people."

"D'you think so? Maybe we should be a bit gentle with him, then."

"I think that's best."

The girls were getting their things together, and Chris vaulted the white barrier and joined Diana, taking her bag from her before she could protest that she was perfectly capable of carrying her own rugby kit.

Tim didn't move. He looked torn between going to talk to Svetlana or bolting from the scene. John stood beside him.

"Go and get her." He said, nudging Tim's shoulder with his own.

"I can't. I want to, but I can't. I'm too...nervous."

"Come on, man. You're a big tough rugby player, she clearly likes you too. Ask her if she wants to go into the village for a coffee or something."

"Okay." Tim squared his shoulders and jumped over the rail, in a similar fashion to Chris. John and Kelly watched as he spoke quietly to Svetlana, and she nodded and gave him a dazzling grin. After some more conversation, Tim took out his phone and Svetlana took out hers, and they exchanged numbers. John couldn't help but grin.

Tim picked up Svetlana's bag, and she picked up a tackle shield, and together they started walking back up to the school building, engaged in animated conversation.

Iveta walked a little behind, a guarded look on her face.

John said goodbye to Kelly, then headed towards the school himself. He reached the door to the boys' door to catch Chris saying a rather intimate goodbye to Diana. Pointedly looking away, John backed through the correct door.

Chris joined him when he was halfway up the stairs.

"So. You and Diana?" John started, one eyebrow arched.

"Yes, me and Diana, what about us?"

"Nothing, nothing. It's just news, is all."

As they reached the top of the staircase of death, John heard sounds of a hushed argument. He slowed down and inched closer to the wall, gesturing that Chris should do the same, and stepped silently to the corner around which he could hear the voices.

He instantly saw two young men, one tall and thick set, with close cropped brown hair and eyes that were too close together. His nose was crooked, clearly from having been broken several times. This one seemed to tower over the other, who was Sherlock. John allowed himself a moment to roll his eyes. The big man was crowding Sherlock into a corner with one meaty hand.

Sherlock was talking quickly, his baritone voice hushed and confident, but John could see his eyes flickering for an escape, and see the hint of fear which pricked at them.

Sherlock stopped talking, and there was a pause, in which the large boy seemed to consider. He looked Sherlock in the eyes, cocked his head, then swung his thick fist into Sherlock's jaw.

John flinched as Sherlock crumpled, but the big teenager didn't stop there. He drew back his foot and crunched it into the ribs of the still form at his feet repeatedly. Sherlock wasn't fighting back, but he curled up slightly, showing he was still conscious.

John knew if he didn't do something, this big thug was going to seriously hurt Sherlock. Without thinking, he ran up, taking Chris by surprise, jumped onto the heavy boy's back and pulled him over.

John hadn't quite calculated sizes correctly. The man John was trying to subdue was huge. He was broad shouldered, with heavy arms and solid legs. John himself wasn't tiny, but felt belittled by this opponent.

Even so, the big guy was slow, and John suddenly had assistance as Chris came barrelling around the corner after John and smashed his fist into Sherlock's assailant's jaw. Within seconds, John had his opponent in a headlock.

The big man slammed a fist into John's side, and John whimpered, loosening his grip slightly. John pulled his other hand away and drove it into the pressure point under his opponent's ear, to compensate for his loosened grip.

The big man howled and jerked his head backwards, into John's nose, which gave a wet crunch and started bleeding almost instantly. John cursed loudly, shaking away the tears that came to his eyes.

Chris had grabbed the guy by the ear and he pulled, drawing a yelp of pain. Chris and the unknown boy were almost identical size, but Chris knew how to throw an effective punch and Sherlock's assailant was far too used to relying on his size.

Spotting a gap in his defence, John ducked behind the big guy, then drove a knee into his back, forcing him forwards onto his knees, then stood on his ankle, not so as to break the bone, but to administer some intense pain without lasting consequences. The big man howled, and Chris punched him again, rendering him unconscious.

As the bigger boy slumped forwards, John crouched down to where Sherlock still lay.

Gently, John lifted Sherlock's arms away from where they were wrapped around his middle. He was surprised to find a small amount of blood on his fingertips when he brushed them over his chest.

"He wouldn't listen to reason." The rumbling baritone vibrated under John's fingers. Sherlock lifted his head, fixing piercing green eyes on John.

John studied the bruise coming up on Sherlock's jaw.

"Of course he didn't, and now look what the ugly brute has done to you. You make enemies quickly, don't you?"

"I thought we'd established that."

"Yes, well, now I have to get you back in one piece."

Chris fitted one arm around Sherlock's shoulders and the other under his knees, then scooped him up.

"This really isn't necessary."

"Yes, it is." The big Welshman stated, glancing down at the fragile man cradled in his arms.

"You left Jacob in a worse way than I am."

"Shut up, Sherlock. He deserved it." John growled. "Are you okay? Really?" John asked.

"I am bleeding from my stomach, only a surface wound, I have a swelling on my jaw, maybe fractured, probably not, and my head is still spinning. I will survive. Your nose is bleeding all over your shirt, you know."

John smirked. "It's not the first time. I'll sort myself out when you're all patched up. Come on."

Chris carried Sherlock up the hallway, thankfully not running into anyone who would ask any awkward questions. Sherlock protested the whole way, declaring himself perfectly capable of walking by himself. Chris ignored him.

"Will you not get yourself into any more of these situations? Please?" John asked.

Sherlock bowed his head in acknowledgement, which was more than John had expected. He did mutter something about being a good fist fighter most of the time, but John chose to ignore him.

They reached the room, and John unlocked the door silently. Chris backed in, and laid Sherlock down gently on his bed. He stepped back and sat on John's bed, to get out of the way.

"Let me look at you." John started to undo Sherlock's shirt, but Sherlock stopped him, glancing at Chris.

"Chris, would you mind stepping outside for a second?"

"Of course not. I'll get out of your way. But I'll be back to see how you are, Sherlock."

After Chris had left, John went through to the bathroom and soaked a cloth, then filled a tub with water and brought it back through to the room. Sherlock looked up at John. "Why does Chris care about me?"

"He likes you. It's what friends do, they look out for each other." John gave a little laugh, then got back to work on Sherlock's shirt. This time, Sherlock didn't try to stop him.

Sherlock was still horribly thin. His general look wasn't helped by the wide but shallow cut across his midriff, steadily bleeding, but John noted his size first.

"I don't speak welsh." Sherlock spoke clearly.

"I'm not surprised. The only people on earth who speak welsh are the welsh. Why is that relevant?"

"Chris is welsh, and he speaks it fluently. I should learn."

"Why would you want to?"

"I can speak lots of languages, but welsh is a blank spot. I can't even pick out words."

"Okay then... You'll need time, though."

"Seven minutes for the vocabulary, an extra two for the grammar rules. Not an issue."

"Really? That's all the time you take?"

Sherlock winced a bit, so John went back to cleaning the blood from Sherlock's gash.

"Yes." He replied, eventually. "I already speak English, French, German, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, Mandarin, Cantonese, Russian, and Urdu, and a bit of Swahili." Sherlock sucked a breath in between his teeth.

John gaped.

"No, seriously. You speak ten languages fluently?"

"Yes." Sherlock bit out.

"That's incredible! What else are you good at?"

"Everything."

John snorted out a laugh, still moving a damp cloth over Sherlock's shallow midriff, occasionally cleaning it in the tub of water. "The sad thing is, that's probably true."

John slowly moved the cloth over Sherlock's wound, and Sherlock began to relax. John hadn't noticed, but despite Sherlock's thinness, he was quite muscularly toned. John spent a minute appreciating Sherlock's overall appearance, with his raven curls, and psychedelic eyes, all he needed to do was put on a little weight, and he would be gorgeous. John mentally shook himself. Hard.

Satisfied with the cleanliness of the gash, John dressed it with the medical equipment he kept in his bag.

Afterwards, he got a disposable cold compress out of his bag, cracked it, shook it, wrapped it in a towel, then pressed it to Sherlock's swollen jaw. Sherlock winced, then went to hold it himself, but John shook his head, and held it in place.

With Sherlock propped up on his elbows, and John leaning forwards to keep the ice pack against Sherlock's jaw, they were forced very close together. John found himself gazing into those wonderful, kaleidoscopic eyes, and he would have surely fallen right into them had Sherlock not cleared his throat, shifting himself away. John did feel a little disappointed, although why, he wasn't sure. He'd barely known the pale boy for a week and already he wanted to spend more time with him. Was this what real friendship felt like?

John mumbled something about clean water, and hastily escaped to the bathroom with the tub of bloody water.


	8. The Body Beneath the Window

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is spending a lot of time wandering around doing very little, so I'm going to kill someone. Obviously I'm not going to kill them, but someone is, and it will be up to Sherlock to find out who.
> 
> So. Game on.
> 
> ~The Effect

It was 6:15am, Wednesday, when a university campus student found the body. 

John had heard the time from the gossips, but he knew the day, because all lessons had been cancelled first thing in the morning, and Sherlock had been decidedly interested. 

Sherlock's stomach wound was almost healed, and he was grilling John about the complexities of tackling, when John's phone had vibrated on the bedside table. Thinking it was a text from his mother, John had unlocked the phone and instead been presented with an email, stating all lessons were cancelled for the day and possibly the following day, as well.

Sherlock, of course, had bolted from the room to investigate, and without really knowing why, John had followed him. What they found, upon leaving the boys' dorms and entering the main foyer, was a surprise. Or, at least, it was to John.

There were police officers everywhere. They prowled around, their hawk-like eyes on Sherlock and John as they slipped out into the grounds.

Instantly, they were confronted by a policeman in a suit and a long coat.

"Sorry, lads, you're going to have to go back to your room."

"Why, exactly?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the officer.

"Because this is a crime scene, and we can't have you running all over it, can we?" The policeman smiled, patronisingly. "Off you go." 

Sherlock paused for a moment longer, scanning what he could see of the grounds, and John thought he was going to try and protest. To John's surprise, Sherlock just whirled back around and disappeared back into the building.

Before following, John approached the policeman.

"I was wondering, sir, if you could tell me what happened here?"

"I'm afraid not, son. I've got strict orders not to speak to any of the students about the details of the crime."

"Okay. Thank you anyway."

"Not a problem, son."

John went after Sherlock, heading back to the room, where he found the dark haired boy sprawled on his bed. The bruise on his jaw cast a blackish shadow over one side of his face, but he still looked peaceful as he closed his eyes and steepled his hands to rest just in front of his lips.

This was Sherlock deep in thought. John was becoming quite well acquainted with this side of Sherlock, and he knew that it was better, in this situation, to say nothing. He perched on his bed and watched.

After half an hour of watching, John slipped into admiring. Sherlock's curls were splayed on the pillows beneath his head, and they looked soft and beautiful. John could only see his face side on, but the sharp line of his nose melted into his perfect, pronounced lips. His long, slender-

John shook himself. He needed to find a way to stop his feelings for his roommate. Sherlock would only find him distracting and oppressive to his thinking.

Swallowing a sigh, John slipped from the room to find out what he could.

John knocked twice on Chris' door. Chris shared a room with another boy, but it was Chris who opened the door and invited John in.

"I can guess why you're here." Chris turned to face him. 

"What the hell is going on? There're police officers everywhere, and lessons have been cancelled... What's going on?" He repeated. 

Chris paused, then beckoned to someone over John's shoulder. John turned around to see Diana in the bathroom doorway.

She was still in her pyjamas, with a thick, dark red dressing gown, three or four sizes too big, over her shoulders. Chris', obviously.

"Diana. Hello."

"Hi, John." Diana's voice sounded a little strained, and, looking closer, John could see her face was a bit blotchy.

"Are you okay?" 

Diana choked a little. "Not really." She said in a small voice. She walked over, and Chris wrapped his arms around her. He stroked her hair and muttered softly to her, before she pulled back.

"What's wrong?" John was concerned. "What's happened?"

Diana lifted her head. "One of the girls on the rugby team..." Fresh tears came to her eyes. "Laura, our number 4."

"What's happened?" John repeated, more softly, this time.

"She...she fell out a window." Diana took a shaky breath. "Her neck was broken."

"Oh, Diana, I'm sorry."

"She was dead when they found her." Chris whispered as he pulled Diana closer to him again. "They moved the girls out of their dorm. I suppose it's a crime scene, now."

"Jesus. That's tough, I'm sorry." John considered for a moment. "I don't want to be insensitive, but do we know it was an accident?"

"Of course it was an accident!" Diana exclaimed. She sniffed. "I'm sorry."

"No, it was my fault, I shouldn't have been so blunt." Diana gave a weak smile.

Chris enveloped her in a hug once again, and the room fell quiet save for Diana's hitching breaths. John caught Chris's eye and they shared a sympathetic look. But he could see that Chris needed some time alone to calm the poor girl down, so he quietly made his excuses and left.

When he returned to the room, Sherlock hadn't moved, but his eyes were open.

"One of the girls' rugby players is dead."

"I know."

"What do you mean, you know? I only just found out from Diana."

"Yes. Laura Pullman. Fell from a window." Sherlock sat up and met John's eyes with a steely excitement in his. "And it was no accident."


	9. The Plot Thickens

It wasn't an accident.

The shadow cast by the police presence at the school had lingered for three days before the official email went out to the students. The death of Laura Pullman, aged 17, was being treated as suspicious. The girls' dorm was off limits, now the scene of a potential murder, so the girls had been allowed to sleep in the assembly room, or in the boys' dorms, as long as there was no "funny business".

Diana had chosen to stay in Chris' room, and Chris had, being the chivalrous gentleman he was, given up his bed to allow her to sleep in it. He was sleeping on the floor, on top of some wadded up duvets, and judging by his posture, it wasn't five star comfort.

Svetlana was staying in Tim's room, only after a very public, very heated, argument with her twin sister in rapid-fire Russian. Sherlock had observed from the ever-growing crowds, and had translated for John. The fight was over whether or not Iveta had the right to "keep an eye on" Svetlana. From Sherlock's translations, it appeared to John that Iveta was only trying to protect Svetlana, maybe in slightly the wrong way, but she had Svetlana's best interests at heart. Svetlana, however, had flown off the handle, saying that her sister was "pushy, overprotective, controlling, and possessive," and that she had no right to be that way, given she was "only six minutes older." Svetlana had then stormed from the foyer, Iveta's demands of "вернись!" ignored.

John and Sherlock were staying alone, given most of the girls-including Iveta, at the moment-were staying in the assembly room. They had been allowed to pick up the bare necessities from their dorms, and only after the detectives had been over everything twice, so the female half of the school was starting to look a bit the worse for wear.

No one really spoke much. The lessons had resumed, but people had turned up purely as a matter of duty, and took notes robotically and carelessly. Everyone's mind was elsewhere, on the events of the past week.

Sherlock had gone very quiet. So quiet, in fact, that John was starting to get a little concerned.

Directly after the incident, Sherlock had taken up residence in the armchair, eyes fixed on something only he could see, speaking to no one in particular about glass, and how the break was all wrong, and her wrists, and how they were broken, but not cut, so not broken by the glass, and her neck was broken, and so on until John had questioned him. Sherlock had shot him the filthiest look, then fallen silent.

He hadn't, as far as John was aware, uttered a word since then. That was five days ago.

Presently, Sherlock was hovering in the chemistry classroom beside John. Diana, as per usual, had sat in front of them, as had Svetlana. Iveta, conversely, had moved herself to the back corner of the room, as far as it was possible to sit from her sister. Being as stubborn as they both were, neither of the twins was admitting their fault, and their usually close relationship was strung out tight.

Chemistry had just ended, and the girls' and boys' teams had rugby training the following period. The boys were training for a match later that week.

Sherlock had started rugby tentatively, and Chris hadn't rated his chances on the team. However, true to form, Sherlock had picked up the skills quickly, and had already developed an advanced spin pass, off both hands, and could tackle with aggression and commitment.

Kelly thought the world of him, as anyone would if they had Sherlock hanging on their every word. In John's opinion, this was because Kelly knew about rugby, and was therefore useful to Sherlock, once the initial usefulness faded, he doubted Sherlock would listen to a word the flanker said. But, as it lasted, Kelly was putting in a good word for Sherlock and, in return, Sherlock listened when no one else would.

This training session was a little different, both teams gathering around at the start. Kelly spoke first.

"Listen, everybody listen in. Grab a shirt." Everyone huddled together, binding themselves in a tight circle with arms around each other.

"I understand this last week hasn't exactly been easy on a lot of us, on any of us, in fact. We haven't just lost a teammate, we've lost a friend.

"To remember her, we'll have a minute's silence at the start of the next match. But we have to move on, and Laura would have wanted us to commemorate her loss with a win, don't you think? So we're going to train hard and play hard, for her. Okay?"

A ripple of yesses went around the circle. Iveta lifted her head from where it had been bowed, deep in thought.

"Laura was a good player, and a great friend. She was fun, but committed, and we will miss her. But, as Kelly said, we must move on, and it's most definitely what she would have wanted for us to carry on as usual. Are we all ready to go out and train hard?" Again, there was a murmur of yes through the group. Even Svetlana accepted the value of her twin's words. 

At that moment, John could suddenly appreciate what the death had done to the two teams. It was awful, yes, but it had brought them together. They were no longer just a team, not even just friends, but a family, hurting from the loss of one of their own.

"Good. Let's get going."

The moment was gone as quickly as it had arrived, but its legacy burrowed itself deep into John's brain and he felt himself, despite everything, smiling for the first time in days.

The girls jogged off to their side of the pitch, still alongside but with enough room to train, whilst the boys spread out.

Training was contact based, and they split off into backs and forwards to start. 

John parted with Sherlock, who followed the backs without a word. His brows were furrowed, deep in thought. John felt the remnants of the smile slide off his face as he observed that intense look of concentration.

John trained, and John trained, and John trained some more, but his heart wasn't in it. He quickly realised that it wasn't the murder that was distracting him, but rather the dark haired winger practicing running moves on the halfway line.

At the end of what felt like an unbearably long training session, John headed straight for Sherlock, but was blanked as the tall boy grabbed his bottle and gumshield, then jogged off the pitch. John huffed. He was fed up with Sherlock's attitude over the past few days. Sure, people had off days, and he could understand that Laura's death had been difficult for them all, but Sherlock hadn't said a word to John for nearly a week now, and John was absolutely done with his childish behaviour. He took off in pursuit.

Sherlock reached the room before him, but only just. Once inside, John slammed the door and whirled around.

"Sherlock!"

"Yes?" Well, it was a start. At least he had replied this time.

"What the hell is your problem?" Sherlock cocked his head, his eyebrows furrowing. "Don't you dare pull that, "I don't understand" face, of course you bloody understand. You keep ignoring me, point blank. I don't care for a day, maybe even two or three, but complete radio silence for a week? I thought we were friends!"

"I don't have friends-"

"No, Sherlock, and I'm starting to understand why." John regretted the words the moment they left his lips. Sherlock visibly flinched. "Sorry, Sherlock, I didn't mean-"

"I know exactly what you mean. It was too much to expect that you were different."

"Sherlock..." John flailed around in his head for something to fix his mistake and remove that look of pain from Sherlock's face. "Were you looking into Laura's murder? Is that why you switched off?"

Sherlock's expression cleared, slightly. "I was looking into her murder. And it was definitely murder." 

Sherlock looked to be retreating back into his shell, so John wracked his brains further, scouring the dark recesses of his mind. He wanted anything, anything that would let him see more into Sherlock Holmes, and maybe, with a bit of luck and a strong prevailing wind, gain his trust.

"Did you get a look at the crime scene?"

"Fleeting, not really enough..."

"Let's break in." The words were out before John could think about calling them back. He pushed on. "Let's break into the girls' dorms, tonight."

"Do you know what room it was that she fell from?" Sherlock asked, his interest piqued.

"It's one of three. We'll be able to tell from the lack of window."

"Hmmm. I'd have to pick the lock; it'd be good to know beforehand, to save time. Couldn't you ask...Diana?"

"Oh, God, no. She's in a real state over the whole thing. She thinks it's disrespectful that the police are poking around. She's convinced it was an accident, and she gets really upset to talk about it." John frowned at the memory.

"One of the Russians, then?"

"I'll see what I can do." Sherlock rewarded John with one of his genuine grins, one which showed real happiness, not just forced emotion. That sealed it in John's mind.

"Right. Tonight, then?"

"Tonight."


	10. Break In

Having decided a time for their break in, John showered quickly and left Sherlock, venturing out of the room in search of one of the twins. Initially, he headed for Tim's room, but thought better of it - not wanting to intrude - and instead descended the stairs, taking the winding route to the assembly hall, where Iveta would be cleaning herself up after training.

Reaching the end of the hallway, he pushed gently on the door and entered the assembly hall. He was a little cautious, as this was now a place where the girls were sleeping, but thankfully it was completely empty except for Iveta, who John walked in on just as she pulled a burgundy tank top over her head.

John slipped further into the hall as she busied herself clearing away her things. He noted, both surprised and not at all, the large distance between her blankets and the next bed. Curious, but not wanting to overanalyse, John cleared his throat.

"Святое дерьмо!" Iveta exclaimed, jumping. "Sorry, you startled me." Her eyes flicked up to meet his. "Hello, John. What can I do for you?"

"I didn't mean to make you jump, Iveta. How are you?"

"I am as well as can be expected. I would ask you the same, but you did not come here to exchange pleasantries." An inquisitive look entered her gaze.

"Perceptive as usual, Iveta. I need to ask you a question." 

"Well, ask it. I'm listening." She smiled warmly.

"Uh, you may not like it."

"It's to do with Laura?" Her gaze remained steady, not even a hint of waver in her eyes. This information flashed across John's mind, but he brushed it away in favour of the present conversation.

"Sorry, yeah, is that bad?"

"No, no. I'm moving on. It's what she would have wanted, after all." Iveta looked up, smirking.

"What room was she sleeping in?" John asked quickly, not wanting to prolong things.

"Really? That's it? Room 117, block A. I'd answer that any day. Oh, John, that's reminded me. The police are very convinced that someone killed her deliberately, yes?"

"They're treating her death as suspicious, so yeah, they think it's murder." John's eyebrow crept upwards, wondering.

"Well, I'm not trying to get anyone into trouble... No, it's irrelevant. I haven't told the police, so there's no need to tell you. Was there anything else you wanted?"

"No, no." John paused. "Listen, you can talk to me, if you think something will help find Laura's killer, okay? You don't have to go straight to the police."

"Yes, it's fine. I shouldn't have said anything."

John regarded the pretty blonde with the welcoming smile. "Do you want to sleep in Sherlock's and my room?" He asked, impulsively.

Iveta seemed taken aback. "No, no, I couldn't. I'd be imposing."

"You really wouldn't."

"Thank you, but no. You see, John, it's a matter of pride. I was unhappy with my sister sleeping in a boy's room, I cannot now sleep in a boy's room. It would be huge hypocrisy."

"If you're sure." John smiled. Iveta spoke very advanced English, for someone with a clear, though subtle, accent.

"I need to get back to Sherlock. Will I see you later?" Iveta did that glancing upwards with a smirk face, which John assumed was some sort of private joke or note to herself.

"Maybe. Goodbye, John."

"Bye."

John trotted from the room and back to 221b, keen to share the final piece of information they required.

He slipped into the room, smiling at the expectant expression that greeted him.

"Well?" Sherlock demanded.

"Room 117a. We're all go." Sherlock grinned dazzlingly again, and John felt an odd sensation in the pit of his stomach. He paused momentarily, wondering whether he was ill, then pushed it down, before he could consider what else it might be.

~~~

Chris stopped by later that day with Diana. They stayed for half an hour, engaging in a little polite conversation, but Diana seemed cold and distant, responding only with one word sentences, refusing to elaborate on anything. John sent Chris a questioning look, which earned him a noncommittal shrug. 

John assumed Diana and Laura had been close.

Inevitably, the conversation floundered, and after several minutes of awkward silence, Chris got up to leave. 

"John?" Diana turned, seeming to come to a decision. "Could I talk to you, for a minute?" 

"Sure, of course." It was the most talkative she had been all afternoon, so eager to find out what had fired her up, John stood , following Diana. She shot Chris a significant look, and the big man made his excuses and left.

"John, this has been bugging me for a little while. I might be wrong, but..." Diana trailed off.

"Go on, it's okay." John said in a reassuring tone.

"Okay. Right. I don't trust Iveta." John's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Oh? Why's that?"

"Ever since Laura...you know, she's been acting really strangely. That fight with her sister just seemed a bit extreme to just be over a room, don't you think?"

"I know what you mean." John nodded, filing away the information for later.

"And she's been really thoughtful, and she keeps smiling for no reason, as if she's sharing a private joke, you know?"

"Yeah. Do you want me to keep an eye on her?" 

"Yes, please. I really hope I'm wrong, but I think this has something to do with Laura's death. I wouldn't trust what she says."

"Okay, I'll bear it in mind. It's going to be okay, you know. We'll all pull through this."

"Yeah." Diana gave a watery smile. "Except Laura."

John nodded once, but as Diana walked away, he couldn't help but notice how very out of character that last comment was. 

When back in the room, John relayed Diana's suspicions to Sherlock.

"I thought she was convinced it was an accident." Sherlock pointed out, unconvinced.

"Yeah. I don't know, something seemed off about her, but she's grieving. But then, something was definitely off about Iveta. I think we should listen to her, just keep an eye on Iveta, anyway?"

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise, then plonked down in the armchair and steepled his fingers under his chin. John knew he was planning the break in to perfection.

At a loss of what to do, John shuffled through Sherlock's books on his desk. He didn't know what inspired it, but he guessed the sight of all those heavy volumes tumbling over each other was starting to grate. He loved books, and hated to see them abused in any small way.

He stacked Sherlock's library books on chemistry alphabetically by subject, then his textbooks. Sherlock didn't look up or open his eyes, but John knew he was listening.

At the bottom of the pile were two slightly different books: a mottled blue hardback notebook, bound with a narrow strip of azure ribbon, and a thick black sketchbook, held closed by a small silver buckle. John smiled to himself. He had never thought Sherlock the artistic type. His hand hovered over the buckle, he couldn't deny, he was tempted. Just before he undid the strap though, Sherlock spoke, voice ringing out through the thick silence of the room.

"Don't."

"Don't what?" 

"Don't look in my sketchbook. It's private."

"Really? What's in it?"

"Now, John, don't be a complete idiot. That's clearly why you can't open it. You aren't allowed to know what's in it."

"Okay..." Even so, John's hand lingered on the cold clasp, slowly warming under his touch, considering Sherlock's reaction if he did open it. Sighing, not quite daring, he reluctantly tucked it back on the desk beside the notebook.

Satisfied the desk was neat, John let the strange compulsion slip away and fell back onto his bed.

Sherlock appeared to have disappeared back into his reverie, so John reached over to his bedside table, grabbed a book, flipped it open to the marked page and read on. He tumbled into the plot, and before he knew it, the sky had turned a bottomless black. It was time.

John changed into a pair of dark jeans and a tight, long sleeved, black t-shirt. Sherlock didn't bother with any of that, only leaving his mind palace at the last minute to grab his overdramatic coat and scarf. Silently, they headed down to the school entrance foyer.

At the time it was, (John's watch read 22:19) everyone was in their dorms. The girls' dorm was deserted, so Sherlock pulled out his lock pick and they strolled in unhindered. 

The male and female dorms were twins, but reversed, and John didn't know how the numbering worked, given the boys' room numbers continued from the girls'.

Sherlock, however, seemed to know the dorm by heart. It crossed John's mind that maybe Sherlock had been here before, and the thought of Sherlock seeing a girl flitted briefly across his brain. Of course, he had pretty much admitted he was gay, but before... John stopped dead, a sudden ache blooming in his chest. Sherlock spun around, coat tails flying, as John's footfalls drew to a halt.

"Come on, John! We don't have long." The tall boy hissed.

"Sure, sorry, Sherlock." John smiled to himself, he hadn't expected sympathy, after all.

They were silent from then on, creeping up the staircase and moving through the twisting labyrinth that was the girls' dormitory. Sherlock flicked his lock pick out as they arrived in front of the glossy black door to room 117a.

Sherlock crouched but John remained standing at his shoulder, a little bit at loss until the click of the lock turning granted them entrance to the room.

The first thing that John felt was the cold. The window gone, outside air and sharp winds were free to whip the inside of the room. Even the rough, temporary boarding over the window couldn't hold back the icy chill of the time of year, and it lent the room an atmosphere which reeked of the events that had transpired here.

The walls were dark blue, made even darker by the nighttime. While John had been busy taking it all in, Sherlock had produced a magnifying lens, and was studying the window ledge intently. The wind was ruffling his hair, delicately rearranging all the individual strands, as though an invisible being had taken exception to its messiness.

"Sherlock?" John breathed.

"Hmmm?" Sherlock didn't take his eyes off whatever speck on the windowsill had fascinated him at that moment.

"What am I looking for, exactly?"

"Think, John. Any signs of a scuffle, anything that isn't as it should be."

"Okay..." John began his hunt around the room. He started by the door - it was as good a place as any - and though he knew he wasn't a detective, he thought his first sweep of the room was quite productive.

The door wasn't forced, so Laura knew this person. She had happily let her killer into her bedroom. There was no sign of a fight by the door, either. All the left side of the room was ordered, untouched, so the killer hadn't arrived with obvious murderous intent. No, in fact, the murderer had at least got to the other side of the room before revealing their intentions.

John began scanning the other side of the room, and here his sharp eyes picked out something amiss. Intertwined with the cream carpet were several strands of dark hair, almost impossible to see. John squatted down, ascertaining what he had spotted was real, then looked to Sherlock.

"Sherlock," John hissed, "is this of any relevance?"

Sherlock flew over and crouched beside John. He examined the hairs. "It could be, I'll have to check them..." Sherlock disentangled them with a pair of tweezers and tucked them away in a handkerchief for reference.

John straightened to continue searching, but Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, doubly warm in the freezing environment.

"I've seen enough, and we really need to get back to the dorm, if we don't want to get caught."

"Whatever you say, boss." John mock saluted, and Sherlock gave him a disdainful look.

Sneaking out of the room - Sherlock was sure to lock the door after they left - down the stairs, across the foyer, up the stairs, and back to their room was remarkably easy. John changed into his nightwear and tucked himself into his bed, but Sherlock stayed sat at his desk, his sharp features illuminated by the dim desk lamp, the little light it cast playing at the contours of his face.

"Are you not sleeping?" John asked, a little concerned.

Sherlock waved him off with a dismissive hand. "Of course not. With all this new information? I may be at the lab when you wake up - don't worry, we have a free first. You can come down, but you'll be unnecessary. I'll only be analysing the hair you found."

John glowed a little with pride at the fact he had found an important clue, willing to overlook the slight which Sherlock had dealt him. "What did you find?" 

"Oh, lots of very, very important things."

"Such as?" John raised an eyebrow, his piqued interest temporarily blowing the sleep far from his mind.

"Mostly proof of what I inferred earlier. She wasn't drunk or inebriated in any way, the scuffing to the skirting board proved that to me, which I had deduced earlier, given her wrists were broken from trying to break her fall, despite the fact she landed on her head.

"She was pushed through forwards, but taken by surprise. There were apparently no cuts to her wrists - I could really do with a look at that body - and though the majority of the glass shards were outside, on the grass below, there were some on the inside. She kicked out as an instinct as she fell, but didn't put her hands up in time to block her body from the window." 

Sherlock looked over, smiling for John's approval. John was nodding, slowly. 

"That. Is. Phenomenal." Sherlock flushed a bit. "Sherlock, get some sleep, you'll be able to review things better in the morning."

"John..." Sherlock wanted to make John happy, but he knew he would forget things if he slept. "I can't."

John looked disappointed. "Alright then. I'll be sleeping. Don't do anything dangerous, okay?"

"I won't. I'll be right here." Sherlock didn't know where the sudden impulse to reassure John came from, but it came nonetheless.

"Good." John rolled over and curled up in a foetal position. Sherlock spent a moment looking at John's exposed back, before scooping up his violin, closing his eyes, and caressing the strings with the bow in a soft lullaby. 

When John's breathing levelled, he placed his violin delicately back in its case, then laid down on his bed, and began to analyse all his new data.


	11. Interrogations and the Unearthing of Secrets

When John awoke, the watery sunlight of an early dawn was filtering through the closed curtains. Tendrils of light crept across the room, bathing it in a warm glow, and John purred contentedly, burrowing deeper into his pillow.

Saturday.

No lessons, no worries, no stress. John let his eyes slide shut, hoping for ten more minutes of sleep. In his semi-dream state, he saw a head of dark curls, and he reached out to them, wanting to run his fingers through them, part them, stroke them, because they were so soft...

He came to with a start, completely forgetting his half-dream the moment his eyes snapped open. Sherlock was gone, but he had, being the kind and caring soul that he was, thoughtfully left a note, which read:

John,

I have gone down to the labs, to have a look at the hair samples we took from the crime scene.

I suspect the hairs belong to Laura's roommate, given the colour, but I want to be sure. 

You may come down when you wake.

-SH

John sighed deeply. So much for a calm Saturday. But then, he supposed this was all part of Sherlock's charm, whirling John around in this blur of action, not letting him down for a second to rest and think about what the hell he was doing.

Heaving himself from his bed, he dragged himself to the shower, taking his time under the hot spray, letting it relax the muscles in his back, unknotting them. After ten minutes of bliss, John reluctantly shut off the flow of water. Wrapped only in a towel, John returned to the room and carefully selected his clothing for the day. He didn't quite know why he spent so long fussing over which shirt would go with what trousers, but he eventually settled for a red button up top, with loose, dark blue jeans, smart but still attractively casual. He slipped on some battered trainers, and grabbed his jacket, deciding to grab some toast from the canteen before joining Sherlock in the lab.

~~~

"It's her roommate's." Sherlock smacked the microscope slide down on the desk, the noisy rattle echoing around the room. "It must be. I don't have the facilities to do any sort of DNA tests, but it's natural colour, very dark brown, and short. Got to be the roommate's." Sherlock ground his teeth.

"Does this make her a suspect?" John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's attitude.

"It would, but she has a concrete alibi." 

"Ah."

"Indeed. On the upside, while you were busy getting wrong leads, I found another hair, much more significant."

"Oh, good." John retorted, dryly. "And this belongs to?..."

"One of the twins." Sherlock turned to John, a broad smile on his face.

"One of the twins? Svetlana or Iveta?"

"Yes, of course." John bit out a laugh. Sherlock just looked confused.

"Which one, Sherlock?"

"Well, as I'm sure I said, I don't have adequate facilities to carry out my inquiries-"

"How, exactly, do you plan to get one of them convicted of murder, or manslaughter, or whatever, when it could, quite possibly, be the other twin?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I need to speak to them both again. And the roommate."

"The roommate?" 

"Yes. Do try to keep up, John. The one whose hair you found."

"Who is she? I don't know who her roommate is."

"Scarlett Moss. Petit, short black hair? Wears copious amounts of dark makeup? Ring any bells?"

"No... I don't think she's in any of my classes."

"Well, I wouldn't have noticed her if she hadn't broken down in a flood of smeared eyeliner when someone said 'Laura' in my further maths class. It was very undignified." Sherlock turned up his nose in distaste at the memory. "I didn't get a good look at her, should probably speak to her again..."

"Right. Do you want the twins together?" John replied trying to keep Sherlock from wandering off on a tangent.

"Oh, yes." Sherlock grinned mischievously. "We'll see how tight-lipped they are in the other's presence."

"Shall I get them now? It's not too early, they'll probably be up..." John inched towards the door.

"Oh, please do. I think I'll enjoy interrogating them." John smiled slightly at the unconcealed glee in Sherlock's face.

"Oh, and have you checked your emails recently?" 

"No." Sherlock wafted a hand dismissively. "There can't possibly be anything of interest on there."

"Actually, there is. And I'm not going to tell you. Check if you want, but if you're too stubborn, you'll regret it."

John left the room with a grin of triumph, and Sherlock frowned, frustrated. His mind was being petty, shrieking; don't check, don't check, prove you don't care, leave it. Deep inside, though, he knew he had to check the email.

His phone was in his hand before he could think it through. Now, his mind was tutting and shaking its head; you're so controllable, Sherlock, you silly child. Sherlock shook his head as if to bat away the irritant of his own consciousness.

Shut up shut up shut up.

He opened his emails. Twelve unread messages.

Ten from Mycroft, with varying subject lines. He deleted them all immediately. One was from the head teacher with some sports fixtures on it and-

Oh.

The last unread message was from Mike, the head coach for the boys' rugby team. The subject line read: Team for Sunday.

Sherlock swallowed, and didn't quite know why. The rugby was all an experiment, there was no...feeling...in it. That didn't explain the dryness in his throat and the fact that he suddenly understood why nerves were described as butterflies in the stomach.

Sherlock hesitated, his finger hovering over the email. He had to read it before John got back so be could analyse it in peace. Resolutely, he brought his finger down and opened the message.

Hi all,

We've spent a while considering your individual talents, and the team for the match this Sunday is as follows. Please don't feel it reflects badly on your playing if you haven't been selected or are a substitute, we just feel that the below players are the ones we need to see playing. You will all get a game at some point.

Best of luck to all of you,

Mike

1\. Ben Ronson

2\. John Watson

3\. Dan Ronson

4\. Chris North

5\. Tim White

6\. Alfie Fraser

7\. Kelly Morris

8\. James O'Hare

9\. Henry Dale

10\. Douglas Allen

11\. Sherlock Holmes

12\. Ali Somerset

13\. Steven Grayson 

14\. Charlie Holden 

15\. Richard Togo

Sherlock stopped dead. He read the list over and over again, doubting his eyes for the first time in his life. There, number 11, blindside winger. He must have misread it, misunderstood. But no. There it was, in black and white. Someone - maybe Mike, maybe Ed, maybe one of the other players - had seen in him a rugby player, and one fit for the first team.

He didn't know what the proper reaction to something like this was, so he stared at the screen of his phone, glowing softly, reading that number followed by that name, trying to think of what he was going to do. A rare, genuine smile ghosted across his lips, and then the door opened. Quickly, Sherlock replaced his emotionless mask and let his phone slip into the pocket of his trousers.

"Sherlock, I've brought Svetlana and Iveta, like you asked. Shall I stay?" 

"Yes, of course. As long as you don't think too loudly."

John rolled his eyes affectionately and slid into a chair. Svetlana looked torn between shooting dirty looks at Sherlock and gouging her sister's eyes out with her fingernails.

John hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Iveta smirked. She was clearly planning something, which worried John no end.

"доброе утро, Sherlock." John looked up. He should have guessed she would do something of the like, to try and wind Sherlock up. She was to be sadly disappointed.

"доброе утро, Iveta. мне нужно задать вам несколько вопросов."

Svetlana smirked at her sister. "Nice try, Iveta, he's more intelligent than you give him credit for."

Iveta hummed. "Impressive. Ask away."

Sherlock didn't waste any time, cutting straight to the crux of the matter. "What were your feelings towards Laura Pullman? Both of you?"

Svetlana spoke first. "I did not much like her. She was childish and not very amusing, and she would do silly things while we trained for rugby. Immature. But she was a clever girl, and she would talk kindly to and of her peers. There was no ill feeling between the two of us, we just were not close. That is more than can be said for my sister."

"Do not be so petty, Svetlana. She's correct, of course. We hated each other. She was captain of the team, but she was stupid, got drunk and did bad things. Not very bad, just...childish, as my sister so aptly put it. She was stripped of the captaincy, and I stepped up. She always thought it was me who spoke ill of her, when she was demoted.

"The night before her body was found, we fought. There was screaming, names called, slut, bitch, whore. She grabbed my hair and pulled, and I scratched her face. It ended when Diana broke us apart with significant force." Iveta smiled, ever calm and collected. "If this makes me a suspect, I don't care. You will find me innocent."

Svetlana nodded. "We were together when she was found, and all the night before. We share a room. Iveta did not leave other than when Sarah came to ask about the rugby, and Iveta leaned out the door to remind her to wear acceptable shorts for lineout practice. She was in view of me the whole time."

"That isn't true." Iveta looked at Svetlana. "Don't lie to cover for me, I have done nothing wrong. You only incriminate me with lies. But I did leave to take a walk at, say, nine? Yes, about right. The windows were all closed, which I remember because the weather was particularly warm, and no one was enjoying it but me, Kelly, Chris, and James, who I passed on my walk, all alone and separately, a good minute between each of them."

"That is true." Svetlana nodded.

"Excellent." Sherlock clapped his hands. "John, fetch Scarlett."

"She is sleeping in the hall with me. I will send her to you, do not exert yourself further." Iveta cut in.

"Thank you, Iveta." John said, warmly. The twins left with nods of goodbye.

There was a pause, pregnant with expectation. Sherlock decided to put John out of his misery.

"I read the email."

"Good. And?..." John dragged the word out.

Sherlock grinned. "I'm not familiar with this feeling, but I'm certain it's good." John's elation managed to overcome the millisecond of horror he experienced at the revelation that Sherlock had never felt this before.

"I'm so pleased for you! I'm pleased for me, too..."

"Yes. You're number 2, right?"

"Yup, hooker."

"I'm number 11. It has wonderful symmetry, the number 11, don't you think?"

"Yes Sherlock, I do." John was just considering hugging Sherlock in congratulations and appreciation of his frankly adorable excitement when Scarlett entered and the moment was gone.

Immediately, John knew something was amiss. He couldn't quite place what...

"Scarlett Moss."

"Yes?" Scarlett had inky black hair, pixie cut, as Sherlock had said. Her roots showed a little, John would say she was originally dark blonde. She wasn't wearing any makeup, but it was early. 

"I've seen enough. You may go." Sherlock returned to his microscope.

John and Scarlett raised an eyebrow in sync. 

"I'm sorry about him." John tried to be apologetic.

"It's fine; I don't mind being dragged halfway across the school, half dressed, interrupting my morning routine, to be glanced at." Scarlett looked snootily at Sherlock, then spun on her heel and left.

"Sherlock? What the hell was that?"

"Testing a hypothesis. I was wrong."

"You were wrong? Can I get that in writing?"

"Don't be childish. Tell me what I got wrong. Go on, think, for once."

John thought back. "Well, she was here because we found her hair in her room."

"Good start."

John wracked his brains. Something had been wrong, his subconscious mind had picked it up the moment Scarlett had walked in, why couldn't he bring it to the front of his head?

"The hair was correct length, it's completely normal to have your hair in your own room, it was the right colour-oh!" John's brain spat its answer at him. "I've got it."

"Do go on."

"You tested and analysed those hairs, right down carefully, and one of the first things you said to me was "it's natural colour"."

"And?"

"That was most definitely not her natural hair colour."

"So it can't possibly have been Scarlett's hair entangled in the carpet in a dead girl's room."

"We know what colour hair we're looking for."

"Oh, we know much more than that. In fact, I've got it down to six suspects."

"That's brilliant, Sherlock!" Sherlock purred at the praise. "How?" 

Sherlock grinned. "That, my dear Watson, I shall tell you when I am more certain of the facts." John inclined his head in acceptance, and they fell silent for a while. 

"You know the rugby is tomorrow, yeah, Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Are you up for it?"

"Of course." Sherlock was so happy to finally be recognised, even if it was in a sport and not a science, "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Good."

The two friends lapsed into a companionable silence as one considered an upcoming game and the other considered the hairs beneath his microscope.


	12. A Brief Interlude

"Are the twins still suspects?" John and Sherlock had returned to their room, and Sherlock was sprawled over his bed, surrounded with books and pieces of paper, with his notebook settled by his head on the pillow, curly locks tickling its surface. 

"Iveta is a slight possibility, but Svetlana is impossible." Sherlock said, gangly limbs not moving in the slightest.

John raised an eyebrow. "So how many suspects are left?"

"Five. One male, four female." 

John arched his eyebrows even further. "One male? Who?"

"Kelly Morris. He has a little possible opportunity, which is more than most do. Iveta said she passed him on her walk, and given his walking pace compared to hers, the balance of probability states that Kelly was heading for the main building when she passed him."

"Kelly! Really? You think he's capable?" John was incredulous.

"Oh, he's capable. I just don't know why he'd do it, given his family..."

John didn't ask what Sherlock meant by that. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. 

"He's the first one I want to see."

"You want to interview him? Like with Scarlett and the twins?"

"Yes, John." Sherlock sounded exasperated. "Fetch him."

"Sherlock, it's early, and it's Kelly, and I'm not running halfway across the school to piss off my teammate so you can conduct some interview that you won't explain to me."

Sherlock cocked his head, his reaction caught between sanctimonious and hurt. "I do explain myself. And he's my teammate too."

"No, you don't. And you're missing the point. if you want to interview him so badly, go and get him yourself." John folded his arms as Sherlock's expression rapidly changed from taken aback to icy. He narrowed his stony eyes.

"Fine. I will." Hooking his coat from where it was strewn across the bed, he whirled past John and out of the room.

"Wait, Sherlock!" John hurried after him. "You realise what kind of mood Kelly will be in if you wake him, don't you?"

"Perfectly. And I don't care." John raised his eyebrows. 

"On your head be it." John muttered, though he dutifully trotted along beside Sherlock along the corridor to room 210b. John knew that Kelly was one of the few people to have a single room, given his roommate had left the school and was yet to be replaced.

Sherlock raised his hand and knocked crisply three times. There came a series of choice curses from the other side. John braced himself.

The door was yanked open to reveal Kelly, dressed only in a towel looped around his waist. His hair was sticking up in tufts, still damp, and he had a little shaving foam under his chin and left ear. He also had a long, shallow cut on his jawline, apparently from a razor, funnelling a narrow stream of blood down his face. He fixed the two at his door with a glare filled with promises of agonising pain.

"This had better be good."

~~~

"So why did you go for a walk, when you aren't a habitual walker, on the night of Laura's murder?"

"I told you! I was hot, it was stuffy in here, I needed to get out for a few minutes. Is that a crime? James and Iveta were out, too. And Chris! There's no way I could even get into the girls dorm, never mind kill someone and get back out again one hundred percent unnoticed. It's a ridiculous accusation." 

Kelly had put on a thin dressing gown to cover up, but seemed particularly angry at being interrupted. That said, he was answering their questions relatively helpfully, only getting indignant when Sherlock tried to pick holes in his alibi.

"Hmm." Sherlock growled.

John leaned against the doorframe and marvelled at Sherlock's inhuman grace as he prowled the room, pouncing on every slight slip in Kelly's alibi like a tiger with its prey. Not that there were many. To John, the guy seemed pretty genuine, getting flustered as Sherlock's circling began to close in, but the flaws in his alibi weren't showing up.

Sherlock just took it all in, pacing around the room with lithe elegance. Everything was filed away where he could use it later. It would seem that the rugby captain was innocent. Funny, how much one interview could show to him.

Sherlock circled once more, taking in the book on the nightstand, and his preferred plug socket to use, and his phone, and the lamp, and the books on the desk.

"We're done here. John." Sherlock tugged open the door and disappeared through it. John was startled.

"Thanks for your time, Kelly. Sorry about him." John took off in pursuit. Kelly just shook his head, and returned to the bathroom.


	13. Feelings

John followed Sherlock back to the room, and waited until they were inside before allowing the question on his mind to escape.

"Guilty or innocent?"

"What do you think?" Sherlock replied, half glancing over his shoulder.

John had the vague impression he was being tested. "What do I think? I think he's innocent, but isn't my judgement clouded?"

"I don't know, is it?" Sherlock turned fully, leaning back against the desk. He locked eyes with John, the challenge clear in his crystalline gaze.

"Well, I think his alibi was good, too. He didn't change it as he went along?" John tried.

"Good, but you're missing just about everything of importance."

"Okay then... Enlighten me." John folded his arms.

"He could easily have got in and out of the girls' dorm. There would have been no one stopping him," Offered Sherlock.

"What about CCTV?" John cut in. "Can't we check that?"

"Well, finally. I was starting to wonder when you'd suggest that. Out of order, conveniently. It wasn't deliberately taken down, but it's down nonetheless. Now if I may continue?"

"Oh, be my guest." John was looking forward to this.

"He was in the girls' dorm on the night Laura was killed, in her room, in fact. But he's not her killer." Concluded Sherlock, seeming for all the world to be suggesting that such a thing was blatantly obvious.

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't, I haven't finished. A big question for you, John. If her body was found at 6:15am, having fallen from the window, and as you and I both observed, the window was very seriously broken, who would be unobservant enough to miss it?"

"No one... But I'm afraid I still don't follow."

"Come on, John, think! You're missing something massive, something Kelly didn't tell us but obviously happened!"

"I, I can't think."

"Yes you can!" Sherlock pressed forwards into John's personal space, a manic glint in his eyes.

"Okay, calm down, let me have a minute." John considered everything Sherlock had said, knowing that his answer had to be there somewhere.

Sherlock leant back again and John couldn't help but miss the close proximity.

"God, you're so slow, John." A flash of annoyance made itself known to John, but it was quickly replaced by a lightbulb of inspiration.

"Alright, I've got it. If the room was trashed with all bits of glass and missing a window, why didn't the roommate see anything?"

"Yes, yes, finally!" Sherlock leaped up and started dancing around the room, his exuberance infectious.

"But what does that have to do with Kelly?"

All at once Sherlock was back in John's face, long, pale fingers wrapped around his shoulders. "He was going to meet Scarlett Moss that night. He didn't tell us because they were out after curfew and poor little Scarlett would get into trouble, but that was why he went for a midnight walk, he was heading to their rendezvous, which they had agreed previously that night in Scarlett's room. Kelly doesn't have a roommate to turn him in, and I suspect Laura knew about this illicit meeting, but didn't need to given she won't be able to turn her roommate in anymore." Sherlock beamed from ear to ear.

"Brilliant. Just brilliant. How exactly did you work that out?" 

Sherlock blushed a little at the compliment. "The dirt on his shoes, and a hole in his coat. He won't be seeing her again, it didn't work out."

"That's a shame." 

John fell silent before snorting with laughter. The whole thing was just a little ridiculous. Sherlock breathed out a laugh, and John was suddenly hyper aware of how close they were to each other. Their eyes locked and John felt a shiver pass down his spine. Sherlock had a hand on either side of him, and their noses were almost touching. He would only have to lean forwards slightly...

There was a knock at the door and John jumped, almost cracking heads with Sherlock, who stepped away smartly as if whatever spell had fallen over them had been shattered.

"Who is it?" Sherlock's rumbling baritone harboured an edge of irritation.

"Chris. Can I come in?" The faint welsh accent drifted through the wood.

"No." Sherlock bit out.

"Sherlock!" John reprimanded. "Ignore him, Chris, come on in."

Slowly, the door swung open and Chris slipped inside. "It's nine o'clock, lads, do you want to head down to rugby training in a minute? I'll leave you to get ready, of course."

"Yeah, sure, we just need a minute to get our kit on. We couldn't miss the last training session before the match, could we?" John smiled.

"That's the spirit!" Chris laughed. "I'll pop back and get you in, say, ten minutes?" 

"That should be long enough. Cheers, Chris." Chris disappeared back through the door to 221b.

Sherlock had maintained his sullen silence for the duration of John and Chris' conversation, which wasn't unusual in itself, but Sherlock had been so upbeat beforehand, John was struggling to keep up with his violent mood swings.

"You okay, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, disdainfully dismissing John's query. John decided he'd rather get changed than try to get more than a word out of Sherlock.

Sherlock, however, was very confused. He didn't know that was exactly what he was feeling, as he had never really been confused before, but the torrent of thoughts, sounds, and outright feelings flooding his mind was unlike anything he could comprehend. Nothing made sense! He had been so close to John, but that didn't matter, he'd been physically close to people before. It was as John had met his gaze, something odd and unexplainable happened inside his stomach, and in that moment he had no idea what he wanted. He felt like melting into a small puddle, or blending himself into John like an artist with charcoal. Giving a cry of frustration, Sherlock settled his head on his hands and tried desperately to just breathe.

The sight that confronted John as he exited the bathroom was unusual, to say the least. Sherlock was sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, breathing like he had just run a marathon, and shaking slightly. This was one situation John had never seen Sherlock in before.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" John crouched beside Sherlock and stretched out his arm, as if to touch Sherlock's shoulder in comfort. He hesitated, but after deciding that their relationship was solid enough for slight physical contact, he laid his palm flat across Sherlock's bony shoulder blade.

Sherlock froze. Instantly, John withdrew the hand, fearing he had overstepped a line somewhere. Slowly, Sherlock lifted his head from his hands and turned his bewitching eyes on John. John's heart stuttered, faltered, and stopped completely.

"What are you?" Sherlock asked quietly, almost resentfully.

John opened his mouth to reply as there came another knock on the door. 

"You ready in there?" Chris asked from beyond the door. 

Curse his impeccable timing, John thought, as Sherlock darted away to change into suitable clothing.

~~~

During the training session, the boys ran some opposed moves, having the boys in the starting lineup as it would be in the game, and the substitutes acted as defence. 

Sherlock looked alert from his position on the wing, up on the balls of his feet and eyes following the game sharply, but in reality he wasn't there at all. He was roaming the corridors of his mind palace, trying to keep his mind on the case. The case! A murder, right on his doorstep! He had all the necessary materials to solve it, he just had to put them in the right order.

Processing this data should have been easy, but was somewhat tricky when he couldn't remove himself from the room of the mind palace where he was currently stationed, point blank refusing to move. John's room.

Sparsely furnished, was John's room. It contained a cherry coloured rosewood bookshelf, neatly filled with all of his personal details - birthday, favourite colour - should it come in useful, a worn leather armchair, a mahogany desk, a set of shelves containing every hobby or pastime John had ever taken part in and whether or not he enjoyed it, along with a locked ottoman at the back of the room. The ottoman was providing a rather comfortable seat for Sherlock now. He didn't want to open it, because this was the heart of the room, and he knew exactly what he was going to find in it. Feelings. Feelings Sherlock couldn't comprehend, or order, or adjust. Feelings that just were, and ones that demanded to be felt, every second of every day, nurturing a deep-seated ache inside him. Feelings that needed to be locked away in a large box at the rear of Sherlock's favourite room, for fear that they would overwhelm him. It was these feelings, screaming and wailing and shaking the walls of his mind palace, that had drawn him here when he should be training. Not that he needed to train, he knew what to do in any possible situation he was aware of.

The ball was flicked Sherlock's way by Douglas, and Sherlock flew up the blindside of the set scrum, taking the tackle and placing the ball without thinking very much. He could easily have avoided the contact, but that would have no benefit to his playing, so he let the ruck form. He also was able to see John in action, briefly, before launching himself back into the drill.

A second pause occurred as the team set up another scrum, for which Sherlock was grateful. He was still struggling vainly to get his mind-self out of John's room. This was ridiculous! He was in complete control of his faculties, he didn't need his mind palace to give up on him now. Not in the middle of the case. The case!

The ball sailed by Sherlock. He was no longer aware of the game around him, buried in his mind palace as he was. Across the pitch, John sighed.

"Sorry, boys, he won't be back for a while. I'll take him back to the room." John made his way across the pitch, retrieving the fallen ball as he did so and flicking it to Douglas. Sherlock's 'moments' were acknowledged and accepted within the squad, so long as he didn't do it in a game. Others might have been dropped for a lack of focus, but Sherlock's talent was undeniable so his little lapses were forgiven.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was trying desperately to yank himself back to reality. He had never been in his mind palace unwillingly before, and he'd never been unable to leave. He knew he'd done it a rugby before, but that was because the drill at the time had been pointless, and there was the early stages of a murder to comprehend; much more interesting.

Suddenly, and with such violence he reeled for a minute, Sherlock was bodily thrown back into reality. He staggered a bit, then plopped down on the cold, damp grass, and John - John - crouched by him with a warm, gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Jesus Sherlock, what's wrong with you at the moment?" John's chocolate eyes were swimming with concern. As Sherlock became more aware of his surroundings, he registered that they were in the grounds just outside the main doors of the school, secluded behind a copse of pine trees.

"Oh, hello John. That's a relief." Sherlock smiled, a rare occurrence at the moment, and propped himself up on an elbow.

"What- what- what's a relief?"

"You." Sherlock just maintained his smile.

"Sherlock. Will you please explain what this is all about? The mood swings, the weird moments?" John was exasperated. He didn't know what else to do, having tried every trick in his not inconsiderable book.

"It's nothing. This is just me." 

"Sherlock, that's not true." John sighed wearily, sitting down in the long grass, wistfully taking his hand from Sherlock's back. "I know you. You're weird, yes." Sherlock looked down. "No, that's a good thing. You are the strangest person I have ever met, and yet you're still the most perfect."

Sherlock sincerely hoped that the warmth coming to his face hadn't manifested itself in colour. From John's expression he suspected it had, his body betraying his mind yet again.

They lapsed into silence, Sherlock sat cross legged on the grass and John with his legs stretched out in front of him.

Sherlock was starting to understand why his mind palace had been playing up, he was beginning to understand the source of the feeling in his stomach, and he was finally starting to understand just what it was he wanted.


	14. Truly Beautiful

"You never answered my question." John stated, playing his fingers through the fresh grass.

"No. I didn't." Sherlock had realised, barely a minute ago, why he had been playing up, and he couldn't tell John. Absolutely couldn't. John was all he had.

"Are you going to?"

"There's nothing to tell. It's the case, John. I need to concentrate on the murder of a teenage girl, can't you understand that?" He realised the moment the words were out of his mouth that he had snapped a little, but there was no going back now.

"Why don't you just let the police get on with it? They've got DNA tests and fingerprinting and all of that, why can't they just do it?" John asked, instantly regretting his words. Sherlock looked as though John had just slapped him, while insulting him, while telling him his entire family was dead. The combination of betrayal, hurt, sadness, and loneliness would have been comical if it wasn't so heartbreakingly painful.

"I thought you were better, John. I thought you said you knew me." Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper.

John didn't want to argue or fight with Sherlock. He wanted to keep the lanky detective by his side for as long as humanly possible, he never wanted to be parted from him, yet he always ended up hurting him, or insulting him. 

"Sherlock, I am so sorry. I shouldn't have said that, I wasn't thinking. I keep hurting you, and for that I apologise. Deeply. I never want you to feel pain again."

"John." Sherlock breathed his name, his expression clearing. 

Sherlock fidgeted with the grass by his side, twisting it into intricate knots. "We can go back to the room, if you'd like?" John's voice was soft, like a gentle hand across Sherlock's features, cheering him.

"Yes, please." John stood, extending a hand to help Sherlock up. For probably the first time in his life, Sherlock willingly accepted assistance from another human being, slipping his hand into John's and pulling himself up.

Once upright, Sherlock stayed close to John, tilting his head downwards to look his smaller companion in the eyes. John looked up, silently, and Sherlock realised that John hadn't let go of his hand.

John coughed, taking a short step back and letting his hand fall to his side. The smile that had spread across Sherlock's defined features dropped, leaving a cold, calculating look in his eyes.

John was too complicated, changing from friend to close friend to maybe something more and back again in the space of a few minutes. What could Sherlock deduce from that? Not an awful lot, apparently.

They headed back to the room in companionable silence, arms brushing occasionally. Neither of them complained.

Back in the room, John settled to read his book, and Sherlock leaned against the desk. He steepled his hands against his lips, falling into a deep and meaningful silence.

"We need to know where Diana was on the night Laura was murdered. We didn't ask her." Sherlock startled John back to reality.

"I'm never going to finish this book, am I?" 

"You don't need to. I can tell you what-"

"Don't you dare tell me what happens." John interjected. "Don't even think about it. If you so much as whisper the tiniest bit of how this book ends, I swear to god I will go through your sketchbook slowly, looking at everything in painstaking detail, and then attach every drawing to the walls of the school, okay?"

Sherlock had the decency to look a little startled by John's vehemence, but he hid it by tossing John his coat. "Their training should be done by now. Let's go." And he was gone. 

John let out a weary sigh. He shouldn't follow. To make a point, he should remain settled comfortably on that bed, reopen his book and continue reading. This all passed through John's mind as he slipped into his coat and locked the door behind him, breaking into a trot to catch up with Sherlock and his long legs.

Diana was still on the pitch when they got there, deep in conversation with Chris, who had come to pick her up. On seeing Sherlock and John, she said something else to him quickly, and he nodded. Then she ran to John and flung her arms around him, before switching to Sherlock and enveloping him in a crushing embrace.

If John was startled, Sherlock was mortified. He stood there, eyes wide, arms lifted from his sides slightly, no idea what to do with the girl who had attached herself to his torso. John laughed.

"Hello, Diana, you seem to be in a particularly good mood today."

Diana disentangled herself from Sherlock, who breathed out a sigh of relief. John had to cough to cover a second bout of laughter.

"Actually, I just wanted to thank you, for sticking with your case. I just really want Laura's killer found and locked up." Diana planted herself in front of John, her arms crossed loosely. "So yeah. Thank you. Are you close to finding out who did it?"

"Actually, we came down to ask you some questions." Sherlock said.

"Oh." Diana's smile faltered, then reformed solidly again. "Okay, shoot."

Sherlock didn't change his tone of voice. "Where were you on the night Laura Pullman died?"

Diana coughed, a look of embarrassment sweeping across her features as her cheeks flushed slightly. "With Chris. We stayed in, I crept out of our dorm quite late, the CCTV's broken, see. I saw an opportunity, I went to see Chris, his roommate promised not to say anything, we just stayed up all night talking. He can vouch for me if you need?" John nodded to her. Best to be sure, after all.

"Chris?" John called, "Come here for a second?"

"Sure." Chris, who had been chatting with Svetlana and Tim, jogged over, smiling warmly at Diana. "What can I do for you?"

"Where were you on the night Laura died?" Sherlock didn't directly ask him if Diana's statement was true, cleverly twisting the question so that Chris would have to provide his alibi unprompted, easily showing up any inconsistencies in his and Diana's alibis.

"Well, let me think for a moment. I was in my room, with Diana." Chris gazed adoringly down on her, Diana returning his gaze through long lashes. He completed his alibi without looking up. "We stayed in all night, she was by my side. We didn't find out until the next day."

"That will be all." Sherlock whirled away, all coat tails and self confidence. John was about to follow when a hand closed around his arm.

"You will tell me when you think you're getting close to finding out who did this, won't you, John?" Diana asked calmly, eyes pleading.

"Of course I will." John pitied the poor girl, losing a close friend, not knowing what to do... John didn't know how he would cope with that. They were all too young to have to deal with the death of a friend.

He hugged her once more, promising to let her know about their progress at the match tomorrow. Chris shook his hand, and John took off in the direction of the main building, planning to pop into the canteen on his way by, knowing Sherlock wouldn't be eating.

While he was in there queuing mindlessly, he thought back to the conversation he had just had. Something wasn't quite right with the joined alibis they had just been delivered, but John couldn't place what. Shrugging his shoulders to shake off the nagging feeling of unrest, John grabbed a tuna mayonnaise sandwich from the selection and headed back to the room.

John gently pushed the door open, assuming Sherlock would be busy thinking and not wanting to disturb him . As the door swung back, Sherlock slammed his sketchbook shut, flailing to try and get it hidden before John saw. He hurled the sturdy book under his bedside table, then folded his hands under his chin neatly, as he did when in deep thought.

He was confident John hasn't seen anything right up until John gave a short bark of laughter.

"What were you drawing?" John asked.

Sherlock tried to evade. "What gave me away?" 

John wasn't so easily fooled. "Don't try to throw me off, I'm curious." The shorter boy crossed the room quickly. "And this was a dead giveaway," he said, leaning in really close to Sherlock's face, making his breath hitch in a way that was completely alien to him. John calmly drew a long, slender 3b pencil from behind Sherlock's ear, smiling gently. "May I see?"

All at once, Sherlock was a small boy, shuffling back and extending long fingers under the bedside table, extracting the heavy black book. Sherlock held it close to his chest, reluctant to release his hold but seeming to come to a decision. His head wailed, "No! No! No!" while his heart cried, "Let him in! You care for him, show him!" Overall, Sherlock felt his heart had a better argument.

The weighty volume leaving his hands was like a vice tightening on his heart, pain blossoming in his chest. This would make or break his relationship with John Watson. John settled on the end of the bed, flicking the buckle, still warm from Sherlock's delicate hands moments earlier. He lifted the cover.

The first drawing was of a young man John didn't recognise. Towering up on a long, thin pair of legs, the man was smiling slightly, more of a smirk, really, as if he knew something John didn't. The drawing was crafted entirely in graphite pencil, so the colours of his thin, dark hair and piercing eyes remained a mystery. The man was sharply dressed with a sharp face to match, all angles, and was leaning slightly to one side, as though against a wall, slightly at loss of where to put himself. He looked a little like Sherlock, so John placed him as a brother or cousin, something like that. The detail in every line of the man's face took John's breath away. Gently, as through moving too fast would shatter the sketches like glass, John turned the page.

This person, he recognised. He felt a pang deep in his chest as he took in the relaxed posture, one leg bent at the knee, the perfectly smooth face he knew so well thrown back, creased by the laughter that rippled through her body. Coloured pencil splashing across the page saw Iveta's long, burgundy coat hanging open, revealing a pale blue blouse and jeans, coupled with the pair of short boots John had only seen her part with at rugby training. Her silvery hair swung loose down her back, each and every strand marked with care and attention.

The same page was home to another sketch, similar, but by no means the same. Facing away from Iveta, a tight crimson t-shirt emphasised toned and prominent muscles in an arm placed on an angular hip, the other extended, tight, dark jeans covering muscular legs all the way to the ankle of her converse shoes. Full lips were pulled into a sideways smirk, head and eyes swivelled over her shoulder to look upon her sister in an amused but caring way. Quite how Sherlock had got all this into one picture, John had no idea, but it was there, plain as day.

The opposite page depicted a tan brunette with dark brown eyes peering adoringly at Svetlana through a thick fringe. He too extended a hand, knotting fingers through Svetlana's slender limbs. Tim was laughing too, more restrained than Iveta but revelling in the attention of the woman he loved.

John flipped the page eagerly, this time. The searching eyes that met his were darker than any on previous pages, and rested in a pale, highly cut face beneath a head of long, midnight hair, pulled up into a tight ponytail. Diana was, as always, wearing tight jeans that left little to the imagination, and an ochre button up jacket. John almost choked on the amount of passion contained in the first few pages of this simple sketchbook. 

Following Diana's ethereal beauty came sarcastic but warm brown eyes, short coppery hair tousled just so, and a slight mist of stubble across a chiseled, tanned jaw. A misshapen nose lent the face a rugged appearance, coupled with a quirked eyebrow. Strong arms led to hands resting on hips, stocky legs clad in grey shorts to reveal hard-muscled calves, and a pair of white trainers, leaving Kelly's triangular torso to be covered by a pale green polo.

The pages still turning, John had to pause and look again at the drawing of the man he knew best of all. Chris was perfect; his golden hair just a tiny bit too long, fluffy and unkempt, his posture awkward for a man of his stature. His clothing was just right, blue checked shorts and a polo shirt, but it was his expression that pierced John's already weeping heart. Chris' grin was so innocent, so carefree, so elated, John felt a smile tug at his own lips. Chris' eyes were alight, his eyebrows arched in happiness. His very spirit, his essence, had been captured here on the page. John was about to set the book down, but there was one more sketch to see.

John couldn't take it. His emotions were flowing like a river in a storm, twisting and turning and dragging him away, so when he saw those eyes staring back at him levelly, those eyes that he knew better than anyone else, he almost lost it. His own eyes, perfectly brought to life by Sherlock's practiced hand, complete to the last crease. His posture, his clothes, his expression, his hair, the colours, the little fidget with his hand, everything. Pristine. But his eyes. They stole the show.

"Why these people and no one else, Sherlock?" John was genuinely curious as to what linked the figures he had just observed.

"They are the people, in this school, who care about me." Sherlock muttered, so softly John only just caught it. John's heart seized painfully.

John closed the book, redid the buckle, and presented it back to Sherlock. John detected a slight tremor in Sherlock's hands as their fingertips brushed, and right there, in that moment, he made up his mind.

"Well, Sherlock, they are singularly the most beautiful things I have ever seen in my existence, with maybe one exception." John swallowed and lifted his head to meet Sherlock's piercing gaze. "That exception being you."

There was a moment of silence, a moment which stretched longer and longer until it seemed to have lasted forever, until it seemed as though there had never been a moment that wasn't that moment, exquisitely painful as John waited. Silvery eyes pierced his and for the first time since they had met, John saw no trace of confusion in them. Just Sherlock, Sherlock staring at him in a moment that lasted forever. John never wanted it to end, but at the same time he wanted it to have ended years, decades, centuries ago, because he could not stand a single second more of not knowing. And then, finally, Sherlock cleared his throat.

"No one has ever called me beautiful, before." He stuttered. He was in uncharted waters with only a vague idea what he was doing.

"Well, that's appalling. You are truly beautiful." John had gained confidence, having said it the first time and not receiving instant rejection. "In appearance, and inside." 

Sherlock rolled off the bed and got to his feet, without really knowing why. John followed. 

"I've had every insult in the book thrown at me, I've had compliments from a wide array of people, but never has anyone called me beautiful before."

John stepped close to him. "It's true. You've got this hair and these eyes and this nose and these cheekbones..." John trailed off, his hand following the lines of Sherlock's face with a featherlight touch. 

For the first time in his life acting without thinking, Sherlock leaned down and softly pressed his lips against John's.

John was only taken aback for a split second, before he returned the kiss, pouring all of the pent up emotion into it as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, tangling his fingers in the hair at the nape of the tall man's neck. Sherlock's arms slid around John's waist, forcing them both tight together.

John felt the brush of Sherlock's nose against his cheek as he shifted forwards, fighting with John for dominance. The sudden feeling of the wall behind him brought John tumbling back into reality, the mid afternoon sun falling on his face through the window as he slowed the kiss, easing his fingertips through Sherlock's raven curls.

When they parted, breathing heavily, Sherlock pressed his forehead against John's, their noses together. 

"If it means anything to you, which I assume it does, you're beautiful, too." Sherlock purred, his voice deep and rough. John pressed upwards, kissing him again, and Sherlock pulled him in close. Eyes flying open in inspiration, John pulled away, suddenly. 

"Got it." He stated, grinning.

"Got what?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows twitching downwards in confusion.

"I thought Chris was lying to us earlier, and I think I've just seen where." Sherlock smiled proudly. 

"Lead on, then." He pressed a final lingering kiss to John's temple before releasing him. "Let's solve a murder."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Squeals*  
> That has been a long time coming. I hope it was a good way to finally get them together - hey, why don't you let me know what you think in the comments?  
> Love as always,  
> ~The Effect


	15. The Truth Will Out

"So Chris, what you told us earlier, about being with Diana all night when Laura died, you were lying, weren't you?" Sherlock was getting down to business promptly, tearing into Chris. John felt a glimmer of sympathy towards his friend; having Sherlock grill you didn't look or sound pleasant. But mostly he was fixated on Sherlock's perfect mouth, the mouth which, though he couldn't quite believe it, he had been kissing moments earlier. John sighed dreamily and tried to cover it with a cough. Sherlock's gaze flickering in John's general direction informed him Sherlock knew exactly what that noise was.

"Why would I lie? There's no reason for me to." Even as he said this, Chris' gaze wavered, unable to maintain eye contact under Sherlock's scrutiny.

"We have two separate, unrelated statements that place you outside the building on that night. Alone. You couldn't have had Diana with you then, one of the people you passed would have seen."

"They must have been mistaken-"

"They weren't." Sherlock snarled. "So why don't you tell the truth now?"

Chris sighed, running a hand over his face, betraying just a hint of a tremor. "Iveta, Kelly, James. They all saw me. I knew you'd see through it. I told her, I said some people saw me, she told me to try."

"Chris, do you have any idea where Diana actually was?" John took control of the interview.

"She told me she was hacking the computers. She'd get into trouble if anyone knew," Chris pleaded, "So she asked if I'd cover for her. I said I'd tell you she was with me. Apparently one of the resident bitches had done something nasty to one of Diana's friends, so Di said she hacked the computer network to set things right. I told her I didn't want to know."

"And why should we believe you, now you've lied to us once?" Sherlock growled. John smiled at the use of 'us'.

"Because it's the truth, this time!" Chris summoned himself up to his full height. "I've got no reason to lie, but please don't tell any of the staff. If Di gets into trouble because of me, I'll never forgive myself."

Sherlock leaned towards Chris, a stormy look on his face, and despite his superior size, Chris shrank back, intimidated. "We'll have to see about that." Sherlock pivoted around on his heel and breezed away. John followed, walking alongside the detective. 

Behind them, Chris' head slid into his hands and wondered how he had got into this mess.

At the top of the winding oak staircase, John stepped closer to Sherlock and gently intertwined their fingers. Sherlock stopped, staring down at their hands.

"We don't have to, if you don't want." John started to pull away, but Sherlock held firm, refusing to relinquish his grip.

"No, I like it. I always wondered why Svetlana and Tim do it so much, but I know why, now. I'll know if something happens to you straight away. You, John Watson, have found the answer to the one question I couldn't answer. And you've done so much more." John blushed. 

"You're perfect, Sherlock Holmes." He fished his key out and unlocked their door, leaving Sherlock to stand speechlessly in the hallway.

Shaking his head, Sherlock followed John and kicked the door shut behind him. Before John could say a word Sherlock had his arms back around him, cradling him close to his chest. John slipped his arms around Sherlock's waist.

"I could get used to this." John purred, nestling into Sherlock's torso. They stood like that in the warmth of the sunbeams cheerfully streaming through their window. 

John lifted his head from Sherlock's chest and slid one hand over the smooth plane of his neck, carding it into Sherlock's inky curls. Sherlock gazed down into John's eyes adoringly, resting his forehead against John's. Sherlock's hair tickled John's face, and he smiled so broadly he feared his face would split.

"You're so... right, John. I never knew how this would feel, but I'm feeling it for you." Sherlock whispered. "I don't want to stop feeling this."

"Me neither." John matched Sherlock's hushed tone, like what they were doing was forbidden, nuzzling into Sherlock's long neck. He pressed a small kiss in the crook of Sherlock's jaw, enjoying the flutter of his pulse at his lips.

"John..." Sherlock's voice rumbled through his body, turning John's insides to jelly. He pushed a little closer to Sherlock. "John, we really ought to solve this murder." Sherlock's voice was reluctant, and as John pulled away, he locked his fingers in John's belt loops.

"No, Sherlock, I understand. And I think we're really close to cracking this."

"It's all laid out before us, but we need to make the crucial link between two seemingly unrelated clues..." Sherlock rocked backwards, releasing John and zoning out, plopping down on his bed. John smiled lovingly.

This was the Sherlock he adored, the thinker, the solver, the enigma, the genius, the puzzler; sometimes the puzzle. This lean body sprawled awkwardly gracefully on the bed, totally unaware of anything outside his own "mind palace".

This was the man he loved.

He knew they had dinner soon, but he was so content, and so not hungry, he decided to skip the meal and just to watch. 

It was three hours before Sherlock moved again. During which, John had put on his nightwear, finished a hefty chunk of his homework, and watched Sherlock think. Sherlock finally came out of his reverie and darted to the bathroom, coming out dressed in only a pair of navy flannel trousers. John was proud to see that Sherlock wasn't nearly as thin as he had been when they had first met.

"John?" It occurred to John that Sherlock had been speaking, and he had no idea what about.

"Huh?" Was the most dignified thing his brain could come up with. Curse you and your infernal lack of social talent, he thought.

Sherlock blushed, a surprisingly dark shade of pink blooming high in his cheeks. "I just asked if you wanted to move the beds together? I like to have you close for as long as possible, and nights aren't an exception." He gave a short laugh. "Of course, if you don't want to, if that's not the done thing, I'm fine."

"Let's do it. You move the bedside table, I'll push mine over to yours." John ordered. Sherlock sprung into action, removing all obstacles, so after five minutes and four strong curses (from John), the beds were together. John smiled and climbed in, snuggling down into the sheets. After a moment, Sherlock climbed in too, and shifted close to John, slinging his arm loosely around John's waist. John sighed contentedly, curling up against Sherlock's porcelain chest.

"We are definitely keeping the beds like this." He purred. "Much more comfortable." 

Sherlock nodded, his soft curls shifting up and down at the back of John's head. John twisted and pressed a chaste kiss on Sherlock's lips, and Sherlock tightened his grip on John's waist. Twisted irrevocably together, they fell into a restful sleep.


	16. The Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello,
> 
> This chapter will be largely rugby based. We had to have Sherlock's first match at some point! But if I get too technical, please accept my advance apology, and feel free to ask if you don't get it, but I'll try to keep the jargon to a minimum. 
> 
> Also the chapter is basically split in two, and the next chapter will be a continuation of the same theme.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me,
> 
> ~The Effect

"Rugby match!" John danced around the room enthusiastically, Sherlock opting to remain propped on one elbow in bed.

"Yes, John, it is." Sherlock sounded deliberately sarcastic, but a part of his heart soared to see John so elated. This was why he'd taken up rugby, after all.

"Aren't you excited?" John asked, voice horrified that Sherlock wasn't as hyped as he was.

"Of course I'm excited, John, but I'm not going to express that emotion through the medium of dance, as you seem to be doing." 

John laughed, swept a deep bow, then pirouetted into the bathroom for a shower. Sherlock felt a broad grin growing uncontrollably on his face, and was suddenly very surprised that he couldn't remember the last time he had smiled in the same way.

He rolled gracefully out of bed. Sherlock was normally awake before John, but the last night had been restful and peaceful, and Sherlock had only been woken by John placing tiny kisses on his neck at around nine.

As Sherlock collected his kit from where it was strewn around the room, there came a knock at the door. Sighing, Sherlock suspiciously pulled it open the barest of inches, expecting someone for John, but instead revealing a lean figure, taller than even Sherlock, immaculately turned out, as always. Sherlock breathed a world-weary sigh and rolled his eyes.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" he demanded.

"Simply to wish you good luck, brother dear." Mycroft smiled a slightly uncomfortable smile, as though it didn't quite fit on his face. He clearly hadn't chosen to be there, so... that was when Sherlock became aware of another man stood slightly behind his brother. Lestrade, of course. Mycroft, seeing Sherlock had noticed, leaned a little closer, and lowered his voice. "He asked me to. Said it was the 'done thing'."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and cocked his head, sharing a brief moment of camaraderie with his brother, thanks to their combined ignorance of social convention. It sounded awfully like Mycroft was taking instructions from someone - someone who clearly meant a great deal to him, to get him to go around wishing people luck. He wouldn't do something so menial as wish Sherlock good look on the whim of a friend. Mind suddenly waking up and taking in the wider picture, Sherlock could see just how much Mycroft did care about Lestrade. Sherlock's smile grew, and he gave Mycroft a knowing look. John had clearly got to him - since when had he been so happy for his brother?

"Okay. Thank you, Mycroft, you may leave. Have fun with Lestrade." Mycroft blushed slightly, narrowing his eyes.

"I assume I should wish you and John the same thing." Sherlock felt the heat rise in his cheeks, and knew he wore an identical blush to his brother. They stood like that, almost identical height, challenge unspoken, brother matching brother in every way, suspended in time until Mycroft nodded curtly. "I'll be going, then. All the best, brother mine."

Sherlock just nodded and watched as Mycroft and Lestrade continued down the corridor. Just before they were out of eyeshot, Sherlock watched them entwine their fingers.

Sherlock closed the door gently just as John left the bathroom, once again only in a towel. 

"You really shouldn't do that." Sherlock stated. "It's awfully distracting." 

John grinned. "I find that an incredibly good reason to do it a lot more often." 

"You enjoy being a distraction?"

"Only to you. Now go, the shower's free."

Sherlock skulked into the bathroom and slammed the door, leaving John half naked and giggling at his antics.

~~~

Half an hour, a cup of tea and a rushed piece of toast later, Sherlock found himself on the side of the rugby pitch, pulling up his soft, red and yellow socks and beginning to understand the origin of the term 'butterflies in the stomach'. It was a truly peculiar sensation, deep down inside of him, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make it stop.

Over the past few weeks, Sherlock had been delivered a pair of rugby boots, a gumshield, and body armour by his brother. Sherlock knew it was terribly sentimental of him, and didn't quite understand what had possessed Mycroft but he was grateful for the items.

He laced up his boots tightly, and straightened to join John and the rest of the team as they warmed up.

They started with a jog and stretches, which Sherlock carried out methodically as usual. His analytical mind ensured each muscle was adequately warmed up, so he was unlikely to pull something, then surveyed John's progress, advising him to stretch his hamstrings a little more. John smiled warmly, with just a touch of friendly exasperation.

The team moved on to some basic ball skills, nothing that would wear them out, but enough to wake up their senses and reactions. They jogged up the pitch, flicking the ball from one to another, then slowed down and stopped at the end of the pitch to talk tactics. Chris was by John's side, and they were deep in discussion with Tim, the Ronson twins, James, Kelly, and Alfie. Scrum tactics, then.

Sherlock was caught, momentarily, with no idea where to go, then he remembered something he'd read in one of his books. The wingers rely on the back line. So he joined the huddle of backs and listened intently.

"Sherlock, we want you to use that blinding pace you've got. If you see a space that you can get through, go through it, and run like hell. Then curve in, and try to put the ball between the posts, okay?" Douglas, the fly half, instructed. Sherlock nodded. He knew what he was doing. 

Douglas went on to tell all of the team where they would be strong, and where they would have to cover each other. Sherlock gave his input occasionally, but mostly just listened.

As they talked, the opposition arrived in their dark green kit, and quickly got started on their warm up. They looked big. There were twenty minutes until kick off, and Sherlock was tense. This was his first competitive match, and there was so much to remember.

"Relax." Sherlock jumped to hear John's voice so close behind him. "Nothing's going to go wrong; you're Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock smiled, observing just how tense John himself was. He was making a good attempt at hiding it, and an ordinary person probably wouldn't notice, but Sherlock saw.

Just before he turned away, Sherlock caught John's arm. 

"Nothing's going to go wrong." John nodded gratefully, gave him a weak smile, and went to join Chris and Tim.

Kelly came over to speak to Sherlock, no doubt to reassure him like John had, but vastly less effectively.

"You up for this, kid?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You have developed a nasty habit of referring to me as 'kid'." I am three months your junior, not a child." 

"Well, this is what you have to live with when you come into my room at an ungodly hour and accuse me of murder in my dressing gown." Kelly winked an gave him a roguish grin. "You'll be fine." Then he was gone, picking up a ball in one hand and passing it to James. Sherlock cocked his head, then followed John and Chris as they headed for the changing rooms. 

"We're playing a backs' game, Sherlock. The team we're against have got a lot of big forwards, so they won't be able to compete with the pace that you and a couple of the others have got. However, in defence, every tackle counts, because if you miss-time it, they're going to do you damage." Chris explained. Sherlock nodded.

"Alright, I'll let John talk to you, I need to get some strapping on this knackered shoulder of mine." Chris waved, then peeled off to talk to the physio.

They slipped into the changing rooms together, and moved over to their respective kitbags. Sherlock unzipped his and retrieved his mouthguard, then turned to John, tucking it in his pocket. They stood face to face for a moment, then John stepped into Sherlock's arms.

No words were spoken, but Sherlock stroked John's back and John buried his head in Sherlock's shoulder, and that gesture was more calming than any words could have been.

Sherlock heard footsteps approaching, (male, large feet, average height but well built, heavy, probably Kelly) and reluctantly relinquished his grip on John's shoulders.

"It's going to be fine." Sherlock assured in a hushed tone.

"It's going to be more than that, it's going to be brilliant." John smiled broadly just as Kelly walked in.

"Are you boys ready?"

"Yes." John and Sherlock chorused, Sherlock in an 'isn't it obvious?' tone, and John in an enthusiastic one.

"Good," Kelly grinned, "because the boys are coming up now, and we need to put the shirts on."

"Oh, really? I thought we'd be playing in this." Sherlock quipped, gesturing to his baggy training shirt.

"Watch the sarcasm, kid, or we'll have you off the first team."

Sherlock bristled at the use of 'kid' again, and John bit back a chuckle, lest Sherlock turn his steely gaze on John himself. Kelly and Sherlock engaged in a stony staring match, only broken when Tim walked in an Kelly flicked his eyes away with a smile. Sherlock looked smug about this small victory.

"Alright, lads, the shirts are on their hooks in order, go get them." Kelly said, and Sherlock left John at the number two shirt and went to retrieve his own. Number eleven.

The shirts were figure hugging, deliberately so, to stop opposition from grabbing a handful as you go by. They were mainly bright red, with black, yellow, and red striping down the front and back. On the sleeves was yellow striped detailing, and the left side of the chest was home to the school crest.

Sherlock was, at first, horrified by the bold choice of colour, but soon found it to be quite attractive, if a little distinctive, when he wore it combined with the black shorts and red and yellow socks. 

Now dressed, the fifteen players and seven substitutes huddled together in the middle of the changing room, and Sherlock watched men whose backgrounds he knew at a glance become a unit. They formed up, arms around each other, and all petty hatred and childish disputes were forgotten as the team became a team. Sherlock was slightly startled to find himself part of that unit.

Then Kelly started talking, gradually getting louder, and the team began shouting, and stamping, clacking their metal studs against the floor. Sherlock knew this was mainly to put off the opposing players in the changing room next door, but the animalistic display was alarmingly realistic.

Soon enough, it was time to go out onto the pitch and start the game, and Sherlock felt his insides squirm to the point where he felt physically ill. He kept repeating John's words to himself, "it's going to be brilliant" which settled his tumultuous emotions somewhat.

A small crowd of students had formed to watch, and John spotted most of the girls' rugby team there. Svetlana and Iveta gave identical waves to John, Diana a small smile. He was ready for this.

Sherlock scanned the crowd, picking out the same people John had. Svetlana was busy waving to Tim as he came out onto the field, so she missed the wink her twin sent Sherlock's way. Sherlock gave her a half smile back and wondered, if it weren't for John, whether he would be interested. He had already come to the conclusion that he wasn't and wouldn't ever be interested in anyone other than John.

The substitutes stayed on the edge of the pitch, and Lauriston Gardens team huddled on the pitch once more, just for one more shout of "Lauriston Gardens!", then it was kickoff. Sherlock stood on his side of the pitch, and settled his insides. Once again, he was captain of his emotions, and every detail of the opposition became immediately clear. 

Inside centre was a weak tackler, scrum half had a wicked spin pass, fly half couldn't - and wouldn't - pass right. The details rolled through his head in the split second of silence, and stillness, before the referee's sharp whistle cut the air, and Douglas put his boot through the ball.

Unthinking, Sherlock flew off in pursuit of the kickoff, feeling rather than seeing the rest of the team at his side. For now, he siphoned off his speed, to fool the opposition later, and to maintain the defensive line.

A stocky boy in a scrum cap caught the kick cleanly, and Sherlock analysed him in a split second. 

Bullied for his size, has anger issues as a not quite direct result, takes it out in rugby. Boring. The important bit, he doesn't like to pass. Excellent, Sherlock thought as Chris put in a solid tackle, taking the boy cleanly off his feet.

The resulting ruck was far more brutal than Sherlock had seen in training, but then he had expected to see inhibitions disappearing with the presence of a common enemy. 

Turnover!

The ball came to Henry, the scrum half, who passed to Douglas. The ball was moved through the backs until suddenly it was in Sherlock's hands. He hesitated for a moment, and was punished with a bone-cracking tackle from the opposition winger.

Note to self: do not hesitate.

The next time Sherlock felt the ball between his fingertips, he didn't pause for even a moment. He ran towards a player, frowning slightly as he was tackled again. This time it didn't hurt, and he made ground, but he needed to learn quickly, because this was nothing like training.

Note to self: think fast.

A few minutes later, Steven, the outside centre, drifted towards Sherlock. With the ball in his hands, Steven gestured by flicking it his way, and Sherlock recognised the sign from training. He had to cut inside quickly, take the pass and change the direction of play. So he did.

He caught the ball loosely, feeling it start to slide away from him, then regained his grip in time to sidestep the player in front of him and find himself in open space. Now was time to open up that pace of his.

Sherlock burned up the centre of the pitch, much to the delight of the Lauriston crowd. He could hear multiple sets of feet giving chase, two from his team supporting him in case he was tackled, and three opposition trying everything to stop him from scoring. He gathered, from the footfalls, that no one was close enough to cause him any concern, and Kelly's shouts of; "keep going!" convinced him. 

So it came to be that Sherlock Holmes scored a try on his rugby debut, calmly placing the ball under the posts. He was congratulated with thumps on the back, making him flinch a little, but glow with pride even more.

Douglas kicked the conversion quickly, and it was back to the halfway line for kickoff. Receiving a kickoff wasn't as easy as it looked. Sherlock dropped back a little to cover the longer kicks, but their kicker was obviously going straight to Richard, judging by his posture and the way he held the ball. Sure enough, the ball sailed straight into the full back's arms, which was their mistake, because next to Sherlock, Richard was the fastest player on the team, and not afraid to show it.

Richard sprinted towards the opposition line, and broke three tackles before being brought down. A fairly savage ruck later, and the ball was fumbled, slipping from the grip of the scrum half and skidding forwards. He instantly dived on the ball, trying to cover his error and secure it, but the mistake had happened. The whistle blew.

Scrum down, green ball.

Now was time to watch John, the pivotal part of the scrum. As the opposing scrum half rolled the ball in, the scrum began to drive with the force of a startled rhinoceros. John lifted his leg and battled for the ball on the floor with his opposite number, neither giving an inch. Finally, the opposition flicked it back through the scrum, and Sherlock read the situation like a book.

Looping around the back of the line, Sherlock positioned himself on the opposite wing to his usual place. Douglas saw what he was doing and placed his faith in Sherlock's judgement.

"Blindside!" Was the fly half's call, and sure enough, the scrum half picked the ball from the base of the scrum and cut around the blindside.

Kelly broke off his flank and stopped the scrum half dead, but the ball was passed to the number 8, who had looped around in support. Sherlock was on the spot, with no chance of avoiding the hit, so he dropped himself down, and hit the bulky player with as much force as he could muster. The number 8 went over backwards.

Charlie, the other winger, instantly pulled the ball from the grasp of the opposition, and started running for the space in front of him. The opposition winger darted across to make the tackle, but Charlie had support from John and Tim, so Sherlock jumped to his feet to receive the pass from either of them.

The pass, in the end, came from John. Sherlock found himself in space once again, and this time he ran extra fast, because John was watching, and Sherlock was nothing if not proud. The ball settled on the grass between the posts once more.

Thus continued the first half. Chris' initial assessment had been bang on the money; they had some truly ferocious forwards, but their backs were frankly lethargic and didn't have a hope of catching Charlie, let alone Sherlock. They proved their value time and time again, Charlie scoring a classic try by sidestepping the full back, and Sherlock adding two more to his tally, once by simply being on the wing with no players in front of him, and once by supporting Ben Ronson, one of the big prop forwards, as he smashed a hole in the defensive line.

They had, unfortunately, conceded one; the opposition's best player, their flanker, rocketed up the pitch to chase the kickoff after Sherlock's second try and slammed into Richard, who, having no time to adjust and despite his best efforts, lost the ball forward. They won the scrum, and the Lauriston team made the mistake of letting them play their game, smashing the line repeatedly then sending their hooker over on the wing. Despite this setback, the home team led 35-7 at the break, a comfortable margin.

They huddled together, sipping at some water, to talk tactics. 

"Everyone is doing really well, it's just a matter of keeping up the work rate in the second half, when we're getting tired. Sherlock, you're doing really well, but watch yourself. They know you're a key player, and this team have been known to resort to dirty tactics to dispose of better players on teams. Be careful, but keep doing it."

At the word 'dispose', John flickered a concerned gaze up to Sherlock, who smiled warmly and nodded to appease him.

"I'll be fine." He stated simply.


	17. The Second Half

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god. A day late again. I'm a disgrace, and I shall be shot at dawn for my disgusting lack of discipline. Please leave me comments and kudos, I really don't know if you like this! It's like when you tell a joke at a party and everyone just stares - you've got no idea what they're thinking. Please put me out of my misery...
> 
> Stay strong,
> 
> ~The Effect

The referee blew his whistle to signal the end of the half time break. A couple of substitutions had been made, Charlie on the opposite wing taken off for Luke, and James at number eight swapped with Pierre, a hulking player of supreme fitness and speed.

The other team had kick off, so they scattered across their half of the pitch, to receive. The whistle pierced the air, and the opposition gave the ball a short chip, forcing Chris to react fast. He caught the ball, but had no time to prepare for the impact of one of the opposition's monstrous prop forwards, and was mowed over. His head snapped backwards against the grass, but he wasn't deterred and protected the ball, playing it to Henry when it was secure.

Play moved on, but Chris had taken a big hit and took a while getting up, leaving the next ruck short despite John and Ben's combined efforts. Henry had to pile in in his place so Sherlock nipped in as scrum half and pulled the ball away from danger. He had never been in this position before, and didn't know much about it, so he did what his instincts told him to. He ran.

This, apparently, was not what the opposition were expecting, and Sherlock easily spotted the space they left in their line. He danced through, flitting to the left to avoid a crunching tackle from one of their locks, and found himself in space. The try came easily, the ball once again nestling in between the posts. Douglas kicked the conversion, and the two teams jogged back to halfway. 

Sherlock was buzzing, adrenaline feeding him confidence; nervousness had plagued him beforehand, but so far he had barely been tackled, and had breezed in a total of five tries. He was starting to wonder what all the fuss had been about, so when the kickoff came straight to him, he was too busy planning his next try to be surprised that they had deliberately kicked to Lauriston's fastest player.

That was ultimately his undoing.

The kick hung in the air, almost seeming to hesitate, and Sherlock kept his eyes on it, unblinking. As the ball slotted into his waiting arms, Sherlock glanced down at the immediate threat, already mentally plotting the dancing path he would take to the try line. The number eight, who Sherlock had tackled earlier in the game, was much, much closer than he had expected, looming in his field of vision. As the enormous frame bore down on him, the thought flew through Sherlock's mind that the opposition had carefully planned this, placing their fastest forward directly in front of him. Then they collided, with the thwack of the irresistible force meeting the immovable object, and all conscious thought fled his mind.

The number eight lifted him off his feet, as though he weighed nothing, and twisted him in the air so his head was angled towards the ground. 

Sherlock had no idea how to react; he had seen this move in books, read about it, but never seen it in real life, viewed, as it was, with revulsion by all who played the sport. A spear tackle. A straight red card offence. This didn't seem to bother the number eight, or even cross his mind, as he pushed down, forcing Sherlock into the hard ground head first.

Sherlock's vision blurred as his body crunched down on his head and neck. He may have let out a small cry of pain, but he couldn't be sure, and he lay still for a moment, dazed and unthinking, trying to work out what had just happened and whether or not his neck was broken.

John was trapped across the pitch as it happened, too far away to help, capable of only watching events play out in slow motion with a sickening certainty of what he was about to witness from the moment the contact was made. His vision blinkered, his heart lurched, and his mouth was suddenly dry as a bone. He was sprinting before Sherlock crumpled into the ground.

Kelly was closest to the incident, stood right by Sherlock as it happened, and he saw the tackle as a malicious and cynical attempt to remove Sherlock from the game. At least, that was what he would claim after the match. In reality, a red mist of fury had descended at the attempt to injure a teammate and a friend, so he flew into the offending opposition player, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him sprawling onto his back. The rest of the team came flooding over, most grabbing hold of opposition shirts and getting into each other's faces, some peacekeepers trying to pull each other away from but being inexorably drawn into the scuffle that was rapidly degenerating into an outright fist fight.

Meanwhile, splayed awkwardly at the fringes of the melée, Sherlock had decided that his neck wasn't broken, so he started to clamber to his feet, limbs uncoordinated. John flashed to his side to support him as he staggered, the world pitching around him like a boat at sea. John turned to the Ronson twins, the two props, who were avoiding any involvement in the brawl, and snapped his instructions.

"Stop them. Get the whole team out of there, we don't want anyone sent off."

The twins nodded and waded in, wedging all six foot four square of their muscled bodies between the two teams and removing Lauriston players from the melée by the scruffs of their necks, while the referee blew his whistle repeatedly for order.

"Sherlock, you need to sit down, you almost certainly have a concussion. Your neck, too, what if it's broken?" John urged Sherlock to listen, whilst observing his unfocused eyes and dazed expression.

"S'not broken, checked." Sherlock slurred. "M'fine." Then he turned and threw up on the side of the pitch, invalidating his conclusion.

"Sit." John instructed, then gestured frantically that someone call an ambulance for Sherlock. One medic did so, whilst another jogged over and knelt by Sherlock's side.

On the pitch, the fight had finally broken up, though there were a number of dirty glares being thrown around. The referee had sent off the number eight with an instant red card, and Kelly was spending ten minutes in the sin bin for starting the fight. Sherlock just lay, looking uncoordinated even on the ground and feeling sorry for himself (if he was even thinking that coherently, John reflected), as the physio asked him an endless list of questions.

"Have you got pins and needles?"

"Can you move your toes?"

"Can you follow my finger with your eyes, please?"

It was a sign of how badly he'd been injured, thought John, that Sherlock only gave brief answers, without a hint of sarcasm.

Play continued on the pitch, but John had insisted he be substituted, not wanting to leave Sherlock in this state.

The ambulance arrived, and Sherlock was forced into a neck brace, despite his vehement, yet slurred, protests. Then he was gently lifted onto a stretcher and loaded into the back of the ambulance. John jumped into the back, and they pulled away.

"John? John?" Sherlock couldn't turn his head in the brace, so he called out to see if his loyal companion was by his side, slight panic in his voice.

"I'm here, Sherlock, don't worry."

"Feel strange." Sherlock murmured, even the quiet hum of background noise in the ambulance causing him pain. He felt ill, lights were burning his eyes, and his mind palace felt like it had been put through a blender, thoughts jumbling and flopping over each other like fish out of water.

"You will do. That arsehole dumped you right on your head, you probably have a concussion." John replied.

"But m'neck s'not broken. Know it. Can I take off ofsakn brace?" It took John a minute to translate "godforsaken", but when he did he sighed.

"No, Sherlock. You can barely think straight, you don't know what might have happened." John kept his tone level and quiet, realising that loud noises would cause Sherlock unnecessary pain, though inside his head was screaming at him to shout in fear.

Sherlock grumbled to himself, trying to distract his fuddled brain from the pain in his head. He recited the periodic table, got lost, then tried the first fifty numbers of the Fibonacci sequence, following up with a description of the life stories of the three paramedics that had picked him up. Then he complained about the neck brace again, confessed he felt sick, and fell silent.

John sat by, fundamentally helpless, but reached out and took Sherlock's hand when he went quiet. John squeezed, hoping to lend his friend some strength, and after a pause, Sherlock squeezed back.

~~~

After three hours in A&E, Sherlock was sat up in bed, his neck reportedly not broken, a fact which Sherlock was incredibly smug about.

"I told the idiots in the ambulance that I was fine. They didn't listen, because they're convinced of their superiority, and they're idiots," he proclaimed, decidedly more eloquent now he was dosed up with some drugs.

"Yes, Sherlock, well done you." John sighed; he'd been suffering this for the past hour at least, and if there was one thing more sanctimonious and insufferable than Sherlock, it was Sherlock on painkillers.

"I should be able to go, now, I feel fine. They're probably trying to think of something wrong with me, so I won't have proven them totally wrong, but I have, they're idiots, I'm fine." Sherlock was borderline babbling, either from the drugs or concussion, but John wasn't going to be the one to let him know. No, he valued his small intestine far too much.

Just as John's head started to pound, a dark skinned nurse arrived and stated that Sherlock would have to stand up, so she could determine whether or not his concussion was at a safe level. The brusqueness to her request suggested to John that she had been warned by the other nurses about Sherlock's... disposition. 

Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the bed enthusiastically, then walked - or rather preened - across the room in a relatively straight line. The nurse did a couple more checks, then with relief in her eyes declared him fit to leave, and vanished.

Signing Sherlock out was quite a task, as John had to keep one eye on the man himself, to ensure he wasn't terrorising the other people in the waiting room. Thankfully, the waiting room was fairly empty and Sherlock remained mostly quiet, so they were able to leave without any problems.

The warm sun had dipped below the horizon, taking the temperature with it. John suddenly wondered how they would be getting home, both of them lacking not only transport but also a mobile phone to call it.

"My brother will be here shortly." Sherlock read John's mind, a hint of bitterness in his tone. 

"Did you call him?" John asked, raising an eyebrow and knowing, really, that it couldn't be true.

"No. But he'll be here." Sherlock stared straight ahead. As John shivered, he realised he was still in his rugby kit, though mercifully in tracksuit bottoms he had slipped on while the paramedics had wrestled the neck brace onto a reluctant Sherlock. 

Attractive though he looked in the figure-hugging rugby kit, Sherlock was probably freezing. John had no coat to lend to his friend, so instead he wrapped an arm around his slender shoulders. Sherlock flinched.

"You're freezing. Come here." John instructed, pulling Sherlock close and rubbing warmth into his arms. It was at this moment that a dark car glided silently to a halt in front of them, and they gratefully clambered into the warmth. 

The car was empty, bar Mr Holmes senior himself, who was driving. He gave John a small nod of acknowledgement in the rearview mirror, before they pulled away, and all communication was halted. John couldn't help but remember the pencil sketch on the very first page of Sherlock's sketchbook and wondered, silently, if the elder Holmes knew that his little brother had drawn him with such care and attention.

John didn't attempt to initiate any conversation, Sherlock's brother didn't strike him as the chatty type. He resigned himself to staring out of the window for the short trip back to the school, where they were dropped off at the door. Sherlock climbed unsteadily out of the car, without remotely acknowledging the existence of his sibling. Along the line somewhere, John had picked up that his name was Mycroft; it seemed an odd name, but then, so was Sherlock. John made sure to thank the older boy, who nodded again and disappeared with the nice car into the night. John shook his head at the workings of the Holmes family.

They intended to re-enter the school quietly, explaining where they had been to Mrs Hudson with the minimum of fuss, then both go to bed as fast as was humanly possible. The activities of the day had been strenuous and tiring, emotionally and physically. They made it through the hall and up the stairs without a hitch, but when they reached the common room it became clear that the whole rugby team had different plans for their evening.

There followed a round of welcoming slaps on the back, which jarred Sherlock's bruised muscles, but John shushed him when he started to complain. 

"They've stayed up to make sure you're okay, Sherlock. Have some good grace," John had muttered during a brief pause in conversation.

"Why?" Sherlock had asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Because if you don't, everyone will think you are an insufferable arse." John gritted his teeth.

"And?"

John breathed in deeply through his nose. "They'll think you are an idiot." This had shut Sherlock up quick as a flash.

They had all finally retired to bed at around quarter to eleven when Sherlock complained to John of a pain in his head. It didn't seem too late when John glanced at the clock, but felt like three in the morning after the attentions of all the well-wishers. Everyone seemed genuinely pleased to see Sherlock alive and well, but John was cautious of Sherlock's concussion and so ushered him into his sleepwear despite his protestations and his futile attempts to wrap himself around John.

John adored the attention Sherlock was giving him, but it seemed Sherlock was still a bit woozy, whether from the painkillers or from the fatigue John was unsure. Despite what he may have wanted, when Sherlock started planting sloppy kisses on the side of his face John gave him a sharp shove that sent him sprawling onto the blankets.

Splayed on the bed, limbs tangled, Sherlock let his eyes drift closed, his eyebrows twitching when his head pain spiked again. As it faded, he felt the covers lift and their joint bed dipped as John climbed in beside him. Sherlock hummed contentedly and reached his arm out for John, who willingly nuzzled himself into Sherlock's side.

They lay comfortably in silence for a while. John thought Sherlock had gone to sleep, when he spoke quietly into John's hair.

"I'm sorry."

"What for? It wasn't your fault," John murmured back, surprised Sherlock had voluntarily apologised for something.

"I could easily have avoided it. Just as easily as I could have broken my neck in the fall."

"What do you mean?" John propped himself up on an elbow, looking down on Sherlock, whose pale eyes were still filled with emotion in the half-darkness.

"I was being cocky and naïve." John blinked; Sherlock was admitting to being self centred and arrogant? "I kept thinking about how I would score my next try, and how wonderful it would be, and how the crowd would react, how Iveta would cheer and probably wink if she caught my eye, and Diana would do the weird eyebrow quirking and then clap, and the rest of the team would do the peculiar back-slapping ritual, and Douglas would definitely get the conversion because he's quite good at that, then I had the ball, and I was upside down, and I didn't know how to react. If I'd had the time to think, I could have avoided the whole thing, and you wouldn't be worried and upset." Sherlock had to take a breath at the end of his speech.

"Oh, Sherlock," John sighed, kissing him gently on the cheek and settling back down, nestled in Sherlock's arms. "It wasn't your fault," he repeated.

"Yes, it was. I just explained-"

"Technically, Sherlock, but it happened because your mind failed you, for the first time. Once the wheels were in motion, there was nothing you could do." John closed his eyes. "But don't you dare do it again."

Sherlock pressed his lips into the crown of John's head, lips quirking up into a small smile. 

"I won't."


	18. Steel In Her Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enough of the wiffly, pointless ballet dancing around the point. This is the beginning of the end.
> 
> ~The Effect

Sherlock, much to his displeasure, felt awful the following morning. It was nothing serious, nothing to merit a return trip to the hospital, but enough to leave him bedridden and miserable.

John fluttered around him - though he assured anyone who would listen, which was no one, that he wasn't fussing - making sure Sherlock was comfortable, warm, had enough to eat and drink, wasn't in the dark, or the bright light, then disappeared off to lessons promising to come back and check on him as soon as possible, instructing him firmly not to move until then.

Sherlock rolled around aimlessly, complaining about his fluffy head, and how whenever he moved his muscles hurt everywhere and that was totally, completely, utterly, unfair.

Unfortunately, his intellectual and scintillating argument could only be appreciated by the ceiling and the four walls, for John was long gone.

Sherlock got incredibly bored incredibly quickly, so he tried to find something entertaining to do.

He had managed to construct a structurally secure tent from the bed sheets, John's laptop, and the bedside lampshade, when there came a knock at the door. Sherlock sighed. His head didn't hurt so much, and he could speak without feeling like he was swallowing nails, so he called out a feeble "Come in,".

Three heads poked around the door. Iveta's, first, followed by her twin, followed by Diana. Sherlock waved them in.

"We all wanted to check you were alright, after yesterday," Iveta started, "And check just how incapacitated you are, because we're going out, and we figured you might be totally incapable of joining us for fish and chips."

"I'm staying in bed. My everything hurts," Sherlock stated.

"You're staying in your tent, you mean?" Svetlana laughed. "You sure you can't come?"

Sherlock hesitated, boredom gnawing at the edges of his mind, but unfortunately remembered John's final instructions. "Do not, under any circumstances, leave this room. Except in the case of a large fire. If the girls come over, which they will, you are not to go out with them, clear? They will beg and scheme, but say no." Sherlock smirked at John's foresight, impressed but slightly irritated at the same time.

"No. I'll stay here," Sherlock repeated.

"How's the murder case?" Iveta asked. "Are you close to cracking it?" 

"Very, very, close." Sherlock sat up a little straighter. "I've got very few suspects left in my investigation. There is one link missing, but only one." 

"And the catastrophic, life-threatening wound you have sustained won't affect your crime solving speed?" Svetlana added, raising an eyebrow sceptically.

"Not at all, John can run any errands for me. I'll find the killer by the end of tomorrow," Sherlock proclaimed confidently.

All three girls visibly tensed. "Good," Iveta stated, almost bitterly. "Let Laura finally rest in peace."

The three left without another word.

~~~

She knew he was onto her. He had something solid, now, some conclusive proof to tie her to the stupid bitch that had got her in this mess. He needed disposing of, they both did. She needed to think of something. Fast.

An idea.

Dropping out of the crowd of students wasn't hard, when you knew what you were doing. She adjusted her bag on her shoulder, quickening her pace. At this time, the kitchen should be empty, she should be able to slip in unnoticed.

Pushing firmly on the blue wooden doors, keeping her head down in case someone looked over, she stepped inside. Leaving the doors to swing shut, she headed straight for a promising counter. The metal surface was clean and cool under her palms as she searched.

Time was not on her side, any casual cook could walk in and disturb her progress. She started trying drawers, yanking them open in an almost frenzied state. One drawer, with a red band around the unforgiving steel handle, provided her with her prize.

The blade glinted temptingly in the white artificial lighting. She admired the full seven inches of the elegant filleting knife, before hurriedly sliding it into the waistband of her jeans, wrapping the blade in her clothing so as not to cut herself. She gently knocked the drawer shut with her hip.

She was armed, she was prepared, and she had a plan. Just then, the doors swung open and a kitchen assistant walked in. He stopped dead upon seeing her. 

"Excuse me, young lady, the kitchens are off limits to students." His voice was stern and hard. He arched an eyebrow and stepped out of the way of the doors, gesturing she should go through.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, sir. I just came in to wash my hands. I had biology, last, and it was a little messy." She gave a theatrical shudder and wiped her hands on her trousers, turning on her dazzling smile.

The unnamed man smiled back, gesturing again at the door. "Well, I'll let it go this once, as long as I don't see you in here again. Okay?" His voice had softened considerably. Must be her smile.

"Of course, sorry again, sir." She breezed from the kitchen, smiling her winning smile again, and swishing her hair behind her.

Once she was out of eyeshot, she dropped the smile and probed the steel blade at her hip. There were a couple of people who she owed a visit.


	19. You Killed Laura Pullman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are. The beginning of the end. 
> 
> It will be dramatic, it will be feelsy. It will also, most likely, be eminently predictable. But no matter! Let us continue the plot.
> 
> Yours melodramatically,
> 
> ~The Effect

John returned to the room to find Sherlock looking much better, seated in the armchair with noticeably more colour in his cheeks than when he had woken up. His slender fingers were steepled under his chin and his eyes flickered rapidly back and forth under paper thin eyelids. John didn't say anything, not wanting to disturb the absorbed detective. 

Sherlock started, suddenly, making John flinch. 

"I'm so close," he muttered, "I'm missing one vital link, where is it?" John didn't answer, thinking Sherlock was talking to himself more than anything. 

Now open, Sherlock's eyes roamed the room, landing and hesitating on John's features. He unfolded himself from the armchair, all angles, and crossed the room in three strides.

"Why did you leave me for so long?" he murmured.

"I had lessons, Sherlock. I wanted to stay with you, but I couldn't." Sherlock leant his face into John's, his hand fluttering like a stranded butterfly, settling against John's soft cheekbone.

"The girls came, they asked if I wanted fish and chips. Funny, how you knew they would come." Sherlock smiled, brushing his lips against John's cheek. "How very clever of you." 

John almost laughed, but didn't want to spoil the moment. "It's not often you give compliments like that," he replied, melting into Sherlock's touch. He nuzzled closer into the crook of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock purred contentedly, and John let the hum vibrate across his lips.

"Why were you gone all day, when you could have stayed with me? I would have made sure you weren't bored." All of the connotations dancing through that last statement made John pull back.

"I would have loved to, Sherlock, but I didn't, so you had to build your tent on your own." A smile ghosted over John's features. "Using my laptop." 

Sherlock spun around, leaving John cold from the sudden absence of any contact.

"Yes, well," Sherlock stumbled, hastily dismantling his structure. "I was horribly bored, and I had nothing better to do. It's not damaged." Sherlock presented the laptop to its owner, a hopeful expression on his face like a child who is afraid of a reprimanding from a stern parent.

"Sherlock," John said, taking the laptop from eager hands and setting it to one side. "If you want to use my things to construct bridges and architecturally complex buildings, you are welcome to. As long as they come back in one piece," he added.

Sherlock smiled and slid his arm around John's waist, so John kissed him, gently, on the lips. Sherlock dipped down for another, deeper kiss, but John evaded.

"I'd love to stay, Sherlock, but I promised Kelly I'd help him study something from his politics class. I should be down in the library... Five minutes ago." John reluctantly disentangled himself from Sherlock, who had abruptly closed off completely. "You're welcome to come down, if you like?" John tried.

"Yes. Yes, okay." Sherlock grabbed his coat and held the door for John. Smiling broadly, John slipped through the door, Sherlock following.

The walk to the library passed in silence, though their hands brushed together more than was probably normal, and their lingering glances said more than a hundred words ever could. Before long, John was pushing on the black door of the library and inhaling the scent of books, old and new.

From the doorway, John could see Kelly and Chris on the upper floor; they hadn't chosen a deep spot in the library to study, and their supreme height made them all the more noticeable. On closer inspection, the twins appeared, hunched over one of the desks, postures indistinguishable, poring over a stack of news articles. 

Kelly beckoned John and Sherlock over, then explained his task. He needed to find a slightly obscure or controversial crime and what punishment the criminal had received, so he could gain a deeper insight into passing subtleties in law, and the politics behind appropriate punishment whilst preserving the opportunity for reconciliation and reintegration into society.

"So you probably want a child crime or a young person," John pointed out, "so that you can see the morals behind considering their future."

"Pretty much. And I don't want a mainstream, world news type case, because I run the risk of my report being similar to someone else's in my class," Kelly finished.

"Okay, so we're looking for a young person crime, preferably quite serious, that isn't world famous," Chris summarised.

"Got it in one, big man." Kelly thumped a stack of articles on the desk in front of John and Chris. "You two can start with these; I got them all out of the archives. The librarian's gone out, we've got the place to ourselves and all the resources. The twins have already started, and Sherlock can fit in wherever he likes." Kelly then dumped himself down in front of another mile-high stack of papers.

Sighing, John lifted the first paper from the stack, and Chris took the second. He wasted ten minutes going through the article with a fine-tooth comb, before realising that there was nothing of interest, and more importantly that he could have found that out by scanning.

He started churning through them at quite a rate, after that. Chris turned up an interesting drugs case involving two boys, but Kelly explained he was ideally looking for GBH, a killing, or premeditated murder. Chris muttered something about being a picky so-and-so, and Kelly swatted him with a newspaper. John bit back a chuckle.

Within the next fifteen minutes, several more articles were turned up, two of which Kelly put to one side and the others he discarded out of hand. Amidst the organised chaos, Tim arrived, balancing eight coffees on a tray in front of him.

Iveta had a thick, dark espresso, designed purely to keep you wired for the next twelve hours, Kelly had a latte with a ridiculous amount of froth on top, Chris and Tim had cappuccinos, Diana an indulgent mocha, Sherlock took his black, and John took his white. Svetlana's coffee was a caramel latte with foam and chocolate dusting, that Tim had clearly spent time and attention perfecting; she rewarded him with a kiss on the cheek which left him blushing.

Diana trotted into the library not long after, spending a moment locating the group, then joining them. She sipped her mocha thoughtfully as everyone took a break from the intense studying Kelly had them doing.

"Why did we volunteer to help you, again?" Chris asked.

"You are all so desperate for my devoted attention, you'd walk over hot coals for me," Kelly decided, waving a hand theatrically. John nearly snorted his coffee.

Sherlock stood in the corner of their little opening, leaning on Svetlana and Iveta's desk, thinking. As per usual, his head was firmly in his present case. One missing link...

"Earth to Sherlock, you still there?" Iveta's lilting tones brought him back to the present. His coffee was cold, everyone else had finished and had gone back to their articles.

Sherlock set down his mug and made to join John, when Svetlana pulled him back. 

"Sherlock, look at this. Do you think this is what Kelly's looking for?" She pushed a clipping from an article towards him, and Sherlock skimmed it through in seconds. 

"St. Maria's school for girls," Iveta read, leaning across. "Laura's old school, wasn't it? It'd seem fitting for Kelly to do that one." 

"I knew it was Diana's, I had no idea the two of them knew each other before here," Svetlana glanced up at Iveta.

"Well, Laura did seen pretty hostile towards Diana, maybe they had history." Iveta shrugged.

The twins' words blurred together in Sherlock's mind, he took them in, but didn't. His vision tunnelled, all he could see was the headline, bold, black, final.

Girl severely brain damaged in school fight.

"The missing link..." Sherlock muttered.

"She's in a real state over the whole thing. She thinks it's disrespectful that the police are poking around. She's convinced it was an accident, and she gets really upset to talk about it."

"I don't know, something seemed off about her."

"She was stupid, got drunk and did bad things. Not very bad, just...childish."

"It ended when Diana broke us apart with significant force."

"It can't possibly have been Scarlett's hair entangled in the carpet in a dead girl's room."

"We know what colour hair we're looking for."

"It's natural colour, very dark brown."

"You will tell me when you think you're getting close to finding out who did this, won't you, John?"

"What you told us earlier, about being with Diana all night when Laura died, you were lying, weren't you?"

"The missing link, John." Sherlock whirled, brandishing the news article like a weapon. "Motive!"

There was silence. John lurched to his feet, a question mark written over his face. "What, Sherlock? What is it?"

"You." Sherlock extended a slender finger, pointing past John, news article lowered in his other hand. "You killed Laura Pullman."


	20. Crash and Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello.
> 
> This chapter and the next will (hopefully) be a rollercoaster ride of emotions. While I was writing, they inspired deep feelings in me; anger, anxiety, sadness, all kinds of emotional pain. That's what impact I'm going for.
> 
> So I'm sorry for any pain you feel over the coming chapters. I tried my best for a massive, hard-hitting, finale.
> 
> Onto the big reveal.
> 
> ~The Effect

Diana flinched away from Sherlock's accusatory finger. John's brain had gone into overdrive, unable to assimilate the information. He'd known there was a killer in the school, but now he was presented with a name he couldn't believe it. Kind, unassuming Diana, the girl who has smiled at him in the corridors, begged him to find Laura's murderer...and she was the culprit.

"You must have got your wires crossed, somewhere, I could never..." but Diana hardly sounded convinced herself.

"Front page news: A thirteen year old girl left severely brain damaged after a fight in a school two years ago," Sherlock said, glancing down at the paper in his grip. "The school you attended with Laura." 

Something in her gaze shifted, broke. "Tilly Dalton. That's a name I'll never forget." Diana's voice was quiet, measured, as if she'd only just realised the gravity of her situation, but unforgiving. She looked at the ceiling, eyes not seeing the library around her, but the rooms of a school two years past.

"I was part of a gang. Nothing major, but it was where the school's coolest people were, so I went for it." John almost pitied her, the pain of reopened wounds was evident in her voice, but then it really hit him; before him stood a killer. He couldn't pity her after that. 

Diana was continuing her story. "The ringleader was a sixteen year old girl called Yolanda. She was Laura's best friend, I gathered they grew up together, so even though she was fourteen, like me, she was the 'second in command'" Diana added air quotes to the title. She smiled slightly, shakily, not quite able to mean it. Looking straight at John, she laughed airily, but it was a tortured sound, eyes like splinters of ice. Her midnight hair swung across her back, like the parting of a deception, carefully woven but falling to ashes before her eyes.

John was tensed rigid by his desk, Sherlock across the room from him. The Russian twins stood to Sherlock's left where they had shot upright at Sherlock's accusation. Kelly, Chris, and Tim stood to John's right, flanking him protectively. Kelly still held a paper in his hands, hanging limply, forgotten.

"They told me, if I ever wanted to be like them, I had to teach Tilly a lesson. She had upset someone's sister or something so menial and petty as that. I wanted, so badly, to be like them." Diana was trembling, traumatic memories threatening to overwhelm her. "I said I'd do it."

"You shattered her skull with a blunt piece of lead piping." Sherlock stated. It wasn't a question.

Diana let out a tiny keen of pain, rocking like she'd been punched. "I can still feel the pipe hitting her head. I can feel it give way. I knew I'd gone too far but I couldn't go back." A solitary tear rolled down her face. "She was the first person I killed."

"She's not dead, only brain damaged," Sherlock interjected, unable to keep his pedantic side quiet despite the situation.

"She may as well be!" Diana was seized by fury. "I read the articles! She didn't recognise her own mother! Don't you understand what I did?"

"What has Laura got to do with this?" Iveta cut in.

Diana whirled, cold fury slicing across the room at the girl who dared interrupt her. "The girls in the gang said they'd stick up for me, no one would tell. But they didn't see, I was terrified! I wasn't in the heart of the gang, I thought they'd turn me in without hesitation. So to stop them blabbing, I blabbed first." Diana angrily wiped tears away. "I told the police it was Yolanda. They arrested her for GBH." 

For John, the mists were starting to clear. The final pieces of the puzzle were slotting uniformly into place.

"I left the school. My father's decision, he wanted me away from them. I thought I'd never see them again, and if I did, who'd suspect me? I was shy little Di, they underestimated me, just like I underestimated her."

"Who?" John asked, lost on Diana's erratic train of thought. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Laura!" Diana howled. "She knew! She worked it out because she was clever, she was damn clever. When I first saw her here, we made eye contact and I knew she knew. She had revenge in her eyes. I didn't know how close she and Yolanda were, but Yolanda was punished for a crime she didn't commit; Laura had a score to settle.

"I tried to run, to hide, to avoid. I tried everything; I faked I was ill for rugby training, so scared I was. But that didn't put her off. She asked me to her room, she had hold of my shoulder, Iveta was stood nearby, I couldn't say no. I thought at least her roommate would be around so she couldn't make a move. Stupid bitch was nowhere to be seen. She steered me inside, and once the door was closed, she grabbed me by the hair and confronted me.

"She threatened to tell everyone. "Everyone you love," she said. "They're all going to find out." I couldn't let that happen. It was all behind me, I couldn't risk losing all this." She flung her arms wide open, gesturing to all the people in the room around her: Kelly, Tim, Svetlana, Iveta, Sherlock, John, and finally Chris. "Everything I'd worked so hard for, everything I treasured. Gone, like a breath of wind, on the whim of one girl who had the power to destroy me.

"She released me, told me to leave. She said I'd better pack my things, I'd want to leave by morning, being the coward that I was. That pushed me over the edge. I walked close behind her, while she banged on about how she would bring me down. And she stood right by the window, too. Stupid cow." Diana giggled a little, a slightly manic look in her eyes, then her features hardened into stone. "So I pushed her, hard. She didn't know what hit her. Her last words were "for Yolanda" which I think is quite fitting."

Diana whirled, reality rupturing her woven world of memory, starting to pace the floor. "I'll go to prison for this. My family hate me, after everything that happened. They have hunted for a way to cast me out, anything. I had to be perfect. I got a boyfriend..." Pausing at Chris' side she trailed her delicate fingers over his cheek. He flinched slightly, unable to meet her eye. "I do love you, Chris. You were the only one who could ever see me as I should be seen." She moved away, and Chris let out a shaky breath.

"I got decent grades. I excelled at a sport. Then someone died by my hand. I could cover it, I could hide it, I mean, it was this or be exposed for my previous crime, but you," she turned on Sherlock, fury contorting her features, "you had to ruin it for me. My life is over, and all because of you."

Diana moved a hand to the waist of her jeans, and then whipped it back up, a long, straight knife clutched in her porcelain grasp. She held it out straight in front of her, elbow locked, forearm taut. John tensed.

"You can prove it was me, you and your little friend. You have cold, solid, proof, and now I'm done, I'm finished, but I won't go quietly." She growled at Sherlock, who retreated closer to the desk, unable to deduce his way out of this one. She pushed the edge of her sharp, metal claw against his chin. "I think you knew I never would."

"Sherlock!" John lunged forwards, but froze as Diana's head snapped around.

"Protective, aren't we?" She smirked, then turned back to Sherlock. "Are you protective of him, too? Shall we find out?"

Taking a long stride backwards, she brought the knife across Sherlock's torso in a lightning quick slash, tearing fabric and flesh with the ease of a panther toying with its prey. Sherlock folded inwards, his whole body caving around the deep slash wound. Diana smugly kicked his legs out from underneath him, and Sherlock crumpled to the floor, heavily. Iveta tried to break his fall with an outstretched arm, but Diana slammed the handle of the knife into her chin. Iveta knew better than to fight back, stepping back into the shadows with a hand cradling her split and bloodied mouth. Svetlana took one step, planting a foot in front of her sister, body language radiating threat. Through it all, Sherlock didn't utter a single word; not the quietest of sounds escaped his lips.

"Sherlock!" John cried again. Chris wrapped strong arms around John's waist, locking him in place, to stop John charging at her. He fought the restraining arms, but Chris had him firmly locked in place.

"John, don't. You'll get yourself killed," Chris hissed, anguish in his eyes. "She's too far gone. She doesn't care anymore."

Diana moved to where Sherlock now curled, and crouched down by his head, twisting her shoulders smoothly until she was looking at John.

Seeing where her eyes were fixed, Sherlock shot out a hand, either to grab her or distract her, and Diana growled. She locked his wrist in a vice-like grip, yanking his arm straight, his forearm exposed. Realising his error too late, Sherlock whimpered and tried to pull his arm free.

"Look at him, Sherlock. He loves you so much, and you never return his affections. Never will. You're a sociopath, feelings don't compute, with you." As she spoke, Diana rolled Sherlock's sleeve up, slowly, one handed, the knife still between her fingertips. "How deep must that cut him? This much?" She drew her knife gently up his bare forearm, barely tickling the surface.

"Shall we ask him how much pain it causes him, Sherlock? Does it hurt this much?" Diana drove the knife into Sherlock's arm and yanked it upwards, leaving a long, dark gash in his pale arm. Sherlock let out a scream of agony. John strained at Chris' hold.

Diana sighed, deeply, like a cat bored of playing around with its prey. "Ah, well, you both have to die. My life is already over, but if I'm going down, you're coming right to the very bottom with me. I think I'll kill him, first, and make you watch. Then you'll know how much it hurts." 

Diana fisted her hand in Sherlock's hair, pulling his head back so that his wild, blue eyes met John's. In that moment, totally helpless, Sherlock desperately conveyed one message, a command, through his eyes.

Run.

But John couldn't, because then Diana would kill Sherlock, and John didn't doubt for a second that she was capable. 

Diana straightened, making sure Sherlock's eyes were still on John, walked to the centre of the room and twirled. Behind her, Svetlana slipped over to Sherlock's side, silently sliding her jacket off and pressing it against his arm, which was bleeding profusely, crimson ribbons spooling between his pale, slender fingers.

John swallowed as Diana approached him.

"Diana." It was Kelly who spoke. "Don't do anything stupid..."

"Oh, do shut up, you slimy bastard. It's not like you don't get enough attention anyway." She twirled the knife lazily. It occurred to John, in a strange moment of clarity, that the knife had come from the kitchens, and that it was very sharp, to be used for cutting red meats. It was interesting, John reflected, mind whirling to distract itself and avoid the numbness of shock, the irrelevancies that flit through the mind of someone in mortal peril.

Diana forced it against the point of Kelly's jaw, smiling that catlike smile, full of teeth, without an ounce of emotion. He went rigid, unable to move, to escape the weapon and the girl who wielded it.

"I could kill you. I don't want to, you aren't worth my time, but if you annoy me, I could. Just slip it to the side...so easy." She drew the knife delicately across his throat, getting into his personal space, her nose almost against his, voice barely above a whisper. She seemed to take a childlike pleasure from Kelly's discomfort, nostrils flaring like a lion who has smelt fear. John felt Chris go rigid beside him, ready to leap into action to protect his friends, refusing to allow the shadow of the girl he had loved to harm any one of the people he held most dear.

"No. You aren't important enough. You aren't worth the trouble. He is." She gestured to John with the knife, the movement unnervingly casual.

Sidling up to him, she kept talking. "He's done for me, now. He's happy to bring me down, even after all we've been through..." John looked into those deep, blue eyes and he saw no warmth, no pity, only a hard acceptance, cold as the oceans depths. John could see the shining trail of one of her earlier tears, so out of place with the anger in her features.

"I have to do this, you understand that, don't you, John?" She turned back to Sherlock, helpless where the pain kept him unwilling captive on the floor. "Look at him, he doesn't have anything to say. I don't think he cares." 

John was paralysed with fear. His throat was dry, and he swallowed. 

"Watch me, Sherlock. Watch me kill your boyfriend. Then we'll see what you have to say." She looked at John, and laid the tapered, wicked end of the knife on his chest. As she drew back her hand to strike, a number of things happened at once. 

Sherlock howled "No!" from where he lay on the other side of the room, John lurched backwards, and Chris, almost forgotten, used his hand on John's waist combined with John's own momentum to pull him backwards and propel himself forwards, effectively switching places with John.

It happened surprisingly quickly and silently. There was no fanfare, no slow motion drama, no orchestral piece rising to its crescendo. Only the soft echo of Sherlock's cry as Diana plunged the knife deep into Chris' chest.


	21. Death of a Good Man

There was a pause, a fraction of a second that seemed to stretch on to almost infinity. No one moved, and no one breathed, there was silence, the eye of the storm bringing momentary peace before shattering the world once more.

Chris faltered. His movement stuttered, and his legs wavered beneath him, like a puppet with all its strings suddenly cut.

Diana screamed, a sound wrenched from deep in her soul, and flung herself backwards, taking the knife with her. She staggered away, the sharp blade bouncing across the carpet, forgotten. Kelly reacted instinctively, hurling himself at her and taking her off her feet with a flying tackle. Tim followed, gingerly retrieving the knife, then hovering nearby to help Kelly restrain her, but she didn't struggle, and she didn't take her eyes off Chris, as he slowly crumpled to his knees.

John lunged forward and caught his friend as he fell. He too fell to his knees, cradling Chris' head in his lap as though he was a tiny child, threatened and vulnerable. The angry yet clean slice in Chris' chest had started bleeding heavily; John hurriedly applied pressure to the wound to stem the pulsing flow of blood, his movements clumsy. Dimly, he registered the early signs of shock, but his mind was more concerned with his savagely wounded friend.

"Chris, Chris, look at me," John murmured, words urgent. 

Chris gasped as the pain began to register, the adrenaline leaving a burning trail in its wake. "Hi, John." His voice was only slightly strained with the pain, a slight hitch in his breathing, barely noticeable.

"Chris."

"Look what I've gone and done. Saving lives? Never thought I'd be one for this sort of thing." John raised a jerky smile at Chris' resilient humour.

"It worked out quite well for me, that."

"Good. She didn't slash you, or anything?"

"No, god, no. You were too busy being heroic. No one would have had a chance with knifing me, thanks to you."

Chris laughed, a whispery shadow of his usual rumbling chuckle, but a laugh nonetheless.

Across the room, Sherlock's fixated gaze on John wavered. Sherlock gave a small whistle of alarm, before his flickering vision faded completely. As his head drooped, the blood loss shutting down his body, a last thought flitted across his mind, startling in its clarity.

At least John isn't hurt.

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" John was torn in two, caught between the man he loved and his best friend. Iveta looked at him sombrely.

"We will care for him, keep Chris going, John. He needs you." 

Reluctantly, and yet not at all, John returned his attentions back to the bloodied form in his lap.

Tim was calling 999, the urgency evident in his voice.

"How're you feeling?" John asked Chris, his tone aggressively casual.

"Grand. A bit tired, actually, but that'll just be...Kelly's brutal training session last night." Chris raised his voice so Kelly could hear him where he still pointlessly held Diana. Chris' voice wavered a little, and cracked, but still had the desired effect.

"Hey, just because you aren't fit enough to play half a minute of rugby, doesn't mean you can blame me when you're tired after an easy session." Kelly was trying his damnedest to keep his tone light, but it was laced with heavy fear.

Chris snorted, then winced and arched his back in pain. Fresh blood surged from his wound; John pressed down on it harder. A pregnant pause filled the air, shattered when he spoke again, eager to fill the silence, and keep his thoughts from his own situation.

"John." Chris whispered, voice thin and reedy, obviously weakening rapidly. "Are you..." He raised his eyebrows, suggestively. "With Sherlock?" 

"Chris! Is this really the time?"

"Aw, come on...tell me. You've been mooning over him...long enough. And Diana was all...watch me kill your boyfriend." Chris coughed, his heartbeat stuttering, and a thin ribbon of blood unravelled from the corner of his mouth.

"I haven't been mooning, Chris, I don't moon." John was gradually falling into blind panic, symptoms of shock worsening, praying for the ambulance to fly, screaming, up to the door.

"John...mate...you really have." Chris' voice was growing slower and weaker worryingly quickly, his speech slurring like a drunk, forced to take pauses more regularly to catch his breath. 

"Okay, fine, Chris, I've been seeing him for a couple of weeks now."

"No...no way...you didn't tell me...you little shit."

"Sorry Chris, some things are best kept secret."

"Not...From me."

"Chris North, you are one of a kind."

"I know...but I really am...quite tired now...so I'm going to have...a little sleep."

"No, Chris, Chris, don't." John flew into wild fear as Chris closed his eyes and his breathing went out of pattern. He coughed twice, more blood sputtering between his lips.

John was helpless; he could only focus on the racing thump-thump of his friend's pulse as it faded, faded, and faded.

Cocooned in John's arms, Chris North, the gentle giant, let out a deep, weary sigh, and then stopped breathing altogether.

John stopped breathing, too. He desperately clung to Chris' last breath, as if holding it in himself would give extra minutes to the limp form in his arms. But deep down, John knew.

He bowed his head and lowered Chris' head to the floor, gently cushioning it so as not to hurt him - though nothing could hurt him anymore. His sandy hair mingled with the crimson carpet, a macabre image of tainted warmth. John finally released the numb wrist in his grip, the pulse that once throbbed so hopefully there gone, and gone for good.

"Chris." He murmured. "Oh, god, Chris." 

The garish crimson stain on Chris' t-shirt, the one he wore so often, began to turn John's stomach, so he twisted his head away.

There was silence.

"Goodbye, big man." John whispered, barely trusting his voice. Iveta let a small, choked sob escape her lips, silent tears snaking away down her pale cheeks.

Diana wailed, a broken, cracked keen that sang the plagues of her tortured soul. Kelly didn't shift from pinning her down, only sign of emotion his downturned gaze, unable to meet the eyes of anyone in the room.

Loss, grief, and guilt intertwined in the air, weaving a quilt of sorrow that shrouded John, his eyelids drooping, throat aching, eyes stinging, hands shaking. He still didn't believe it, it hadn't registered properly.

As Iveta choked, Kelly looked on, Tim covered his mouth, Svetlana bit hard on her lip, and Diana stared, broken, it hit John, like a hammer blow to the chest or a machete driven into his head.

Chris was dead.

The ambulance arrived, screaming siren muted to insignificance in John's mind, to take Sherlock away and mend his arm. The police took a hollow Diana without a struggle. There was nothing left to be done for Chris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry, and I'm really not sorry, and this was always going to happen so you may call me a sadist but please please comment! How can I know what you're thinking without comments?  
> Loving you, missing Chris,  
> ~The Effect


	22. Fix You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These next few chapters are so short you will probably roll your eyes impatiently so if you're really good, I'll post two at a time. This one's a solo, though. Sorry.
> 
> All my love
> 
> ~The Effect

Sherlock cracked open his eyes, hissing at the artificial lights that accosted them. He was pleasantly drowsy and numb, drugged up with painkillers and prolonged sleep, but before he drifted off again, he became aware of a warm palm pressed against his, and of fingers entwined with his own.

***

When Sherlock awoke the second time, he felt much sharper than before, his eyes focusing enough to latch onto various objects in his surroundings. The nurse at the foot of his bed looked up, smiling warmly up at his narrowed eyes. Sherlock scowled; she was an unfamiliar intrusion in his little world of calm.

"Is he awake?" Warm tone, weary. Tired male, hasn't slept for thirty- no, thirty one hours.

"Yes, he's just coming to, actually. He might seem a bit shaken at first." The nurse. Sherlock could see her, he wanted to see who else was in the room but couldn't seem to find the strength or the will to turn his head.

"That's fine. He'll know us the moment he sees us." Sharper tone, female, had slept, but not well, fitfully. Appears to have shouted repeatedly in the not too distant past; voice slightly scratchy. The nurse stood and left, irritatingly confident smile still firmly in place.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?" First voice. 

"'f course can 'ear you." Sherlock thought it perfectly, but his mouth was a bit...uncoordinated.

He heard a breathed laugh, then the woman said, "Welcome back, Sherlock."

"I've missed you," the man muttered, barely audible, and suddenly everything slotted into place, like a particularly satisfying game of Tetris.

"John," he said, "John, John." When John's face shifted into his line of view, Sherlock let out a breath of air that was part relief, part laugh, part sob.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm here," John soothed.

"I can leave, if you like, give you some alone time?" said the woman, but Sherlock cut her off.

"It's Svetlana, isn't it?" Sherlock asked, pleased with the return of his deductive skills. He was startled, then, when John laughed. "What's funny?"

"Even the great Sherlock Holmes..." John smiled, and the blonde Russian joined him at the side of the bed. The other blonde Russian.

"Oh, sorry. Iveta." The woman in question laughed, reaching out and a smoothing Sherlock's erratic curls from his face. Sherlock growled in frustration.

"I see you aren't quite back to one hundred percent, sweetheart. That's the first time since we met that you have willingly apologised to me." Sherlock scowled deeper at the pet name. "But I am going to leave, because you two do really need some alone time."

John blushed a rosy shade, slipping his hand into Sherlock's and holding on tight. Iveta grinned, planting a kiss on Sherlock's cheek, then stood to leave.

"You poor thing. You'd best get well soon, though that arm is in a very bad way..." She disappeared from sight and the door closed behind her with a resounding click. Almost immediately, John brought his other hand to cup Sherlock's face, his fingers mapping every square centimetre of Sherlock's features, as though his entire face had warped and rearranged itself, and John had to relearn every contour. 

"Sherlock, my god, Sherlock." Sherlock shuddered, wrapping his good arm around John's neck and pulling him close. They sat like that for a while, in silence; both of them needed the other for support, to be a rock in the tempestuous waters they suddenly found themselves submerged in. Only together could they ride out the storm.

Sherlock inhaled the scent that clung to the base of John's throat, the earthy scent that was overlaid with sharp citrus, the smell that he felt he could call home, and he felt grounded. Pressing his lips against Sherlock's jaw, John moved across Sherlock's cheekbone over to his lips, where he presented a kiss that made all the pain fade away. 

"Why did this all have to happen, Sherlock? Why us? Why now? Why Chris?" John choked on his name. "So many whys, no answers," John pressed his forehead against Sherlock's.

"John," was all Sherlock could say, no words to express condolences or pity in any way that would help John, so he just shifted forwards and their lips met again.

"How is your arm?" John asked when they parted, hunting for a new topic of conversation.

"It's manageable," Sherlock mumbled into John's neck. "I can't work my fingers properly."

"Take my hand." John slid his fingers between Sherlock's, trying not to look at the ugly stitching and mauve scar that bisected his pale arm. John squeezed gently, and Sherlock twitched his fingers, closing them slowly on John's, the muscles in his arm pulsing, but he was unable to form a solid hold, his grip weak and flimsy. "Oh, Sherlock," John sighed.

Sherlock cracked a small smile, his features feeling stiff from lack of movement. The smile slid from his face faster than John could follow when a realisation dawned on him.

"John." 

"Sherlock?"

"Do you have a pencil? Or pen, it doesn't matter. And paper," Sherlock demanded.

"Sure." John produced a biro from his pocket and handed it over. He slid a small notebook from the desk to one side of him and gave that over, too.

Tentatively, Sherlock curled his slender fingers around the pen, and held the paper steady with his other, strong, hand. He lowered the nib to the top sheet, and drew a line. An attempt at a straight line, from one side of the page to the other, comes off wobbly and uneven. He tried again, and again, sketching a circle, the end of the bed, John's eyes, everything. None of it recognisable.

John felt a twisting knife of sympathy in his gut at the despair in Sherlock's eyes. The pen fell lifelessly to Sherlock's lap and he was silent, his bobbing Adam's apple the only sign of emotion he displayed.

John slipped his fingers in between Sherlock's once more.

"We will do everything, Sherlock, everything we physically can, to help you draw again. We will fix you," John asserted, "don't you worry about that."


	23. Brief Best Wishes

John was back bright and early the next morning, this time with sketch pad and pencils in tow. Flashing a grin, he deposited them on Sherlock's bedside table. Sherlock's smile, stretching from ear to ear, so rarely seen, told the tale of his emotions better than any words.

It almost told it better than the kiss he gave John to say thank you.

Alongside the pad, Svetlana had sent an attempt at an amusing gift, a hefty copy of War and Peace, in its original Cyrillic transcription, in the hope that, so she said, she could bore him out of his melodrama and bring him home sooner.

Funny, with all the talk of home, not one of them referred to the house in which they lived with their parents. Firmly in the mind of each and every member of the group of friends was the boarding house at Lauriston Gardens.


	24. Bleak Expectations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last one was bloody short. I know, outrageous, isn't it? Oh, yeah; so is this one. It's not cheerful, either.
> 
> Sorry about that...
> 
> ~The Effect

Diana's trial went to course. Accusations were made; she pleaded guilty. At mention of Chris' name, she cried.

***

On Thursday, Sherlock closed his hand completely unaided. The physiotherapist grinned with enthusiasm, and Sherlock - elated as he was - grinned back.

He now sported a long mauve scar across his stomach. The puckered skin was stitched close together, and the nurses promised it would fade, though not completely. He would forever sport a reddened stripe across his torso, a silent reminder of events.

***

Chris' funeral was a sombre affair, John standing by with his heels together and his back straight, in a suit that felt too big, too grown up, while he had never felt smaller. 

John met Chris' mother and father. They were a lovely pair of people, John thought, and they deserved more time with their only son. There was a deep weariness in the woman's eyes as she regarded him, thanked him for everything he did for her Chris, then left.

Throughout the crushing misery, John clung to Iveta's arm for support, though he was sure he was supposed to be the giver of said support, not the receiver. He kept his head up courageously, to warn away any threatening tears.

It didn't stop them when they came.


	25. Escaping The Jaws Of Despair

John sat behind Sherlock, legs spread so Sherlock would fit between them, and reached around him. One arm he locked around the detective's waist, the other he extended and wrapped his fingers around the back of Sherlock's hand. 

With a sense of great trepidation, Sherlock took up his pencil, a humble but reliable 2B, and closed it securely between his fingers.

They were seated together on the floor of their dorm, a place of sights and sounds and smells and memories, a new one about to be made. With all of John's practically nonexistent drawing ability, he began to guide Sherlock's uncertain hand across the page. 

The first try had them both in fits; Sherlock's final drawing was dreadful, and John's guidance was, if anything, worse. They lay on the floor together for some time after, each just watching the other breathe, and revelling in how lucky they were to be there, to be together, and how unlucky they were for all of the pain hurled their way.

The second time was not observably better.

The third time, four days later, there was progress. Sherlock began to lead John, taking control as his strength returned. He drew a rectangle, only using John as a semi crutch, moral support more than anything else. Afterwards, Sherlock kissed him with all the passion of his art, and John wondered if everything would be okay after all.

Sherlock reached up with his damaged right hand, cupping John's cheek. John leaned into the touch, easing featherlight fingers over the puckered scar that would never fade, the scar that would mark him out for all his life. John couldn't help but feel guilty; it was his fault that Sherlock was like this, and it was his fault that Chris...

It was his fault that Chris would never smile again.

Thoughts like this arrived with alarming regularity, and Sherlock never knew what to do. Out of the blue, in a seemingly innocent moment, John's smile would twitch, the corners of his mouth pulling downwards, and he would be inconsolable for half an hour after that.

Sherlock was sat on his bed in the dorm one such time, and John was laughing at something he had said, then the rumbling storm cloud rolled over, and John's expression shuttered against the rain.

Unable to bear it another time, Sherlock shot to his feet, startling John, clenching and unclenching his fists in frustration.

"Please," he ground out, "let me help you."

"Help me?" John seemed confused. "I don't need help, I'm all in one piece, surely you-"

"I appreciate all that you've done for me, John, and I would ask for nothing more than what you've given. But now you need help, and I don't know how to help you. Tell me." Sherlock looked at him, hard, hoping that if he looked hard enough, all would reveal itself to him. Curse his one weakness, his inability to understand human interaction.

Curse his one weakness, John Watson.

John smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. "There's nothing you can do, Sherlock."

Sherlock practically growled in frustration, and stalked around his bed. John followed his movements, but subconsciously. His mind was elsewhere.

John was jerked back to reality when something heavy landed in his lap. Sherlock straightened and crossed his arms. "You have to move on," Sherlock stated, shortly.

John looked down, and smiling back up at him was Sherlock's drawing of Chris. He physically flinched.

"He's gone, John." Sherlock reached down and flipped the page. "But he isn't." Sherlock gestured to Kelly's picture, "and neither are they." A broad sweep encompassed Tim, Svetlana, and Iveta.

John breathed out a shaky sigh. "I've been neglecting them, haven't I? I'm too focused on moping to notice."

"Everyone is mourning. It is what people do to cope with the loss of someone they love. But they would rather they were mourning with you."

"That is the most insightful thing you have ever said to me regarding human nature, Sherlock."

"I've had plenty of study time." Sherlock nodded once, reaching down to close his sketchbook.

As the pages slid over one another, John glimpsed a ragged edge in the margin. It hadn't escaped his notice that Diana's picture no longer featured in Sherlock's sketchbook, but apparently she had been forcibly removed. John wasn't the only one who had been betrayed.

Relinquishing his hold on the book, John steeled himself, and stood. "I need to see them," he said.

Svetlana, Tim, and Iveta were in the entrance hall when John headed down. Sherlock waited on the steps as John headed towards them. No words were exchanged, but Iveta opened her arms, and John fell into them.

Straightening from the embrace, John reached out to hug Svetlana too. For a second, he and Tim regarded each other, then they folded into a crushing bear hug. Iveta, spotting Sherlock on the stair, waved him over with a raised eyebrow. In the moments of camaraderie that followed, of sad smiles and friendship, Sherlock could place the exact moment the four of them let Chris go.

Together, they thrived.


	26. Ten Years On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There's a proper time to die, isn't there? And one should embrace it when it comes - like a soldier."
> 
> This is the final chapter. Yup. The very last one. I hope I leave it in a place that is good and conclusive to the story as a whole.
> 
> *Salutes* it's been wonderful knowing you.
> 
> ~The Effect

***

Ten Years On

***

The black cab pulled up at Lauriston Gardens boarding school, and Sherlock lolled his head against the headrest.

"Why are we here?" he moaned to John, lounging in the seat beside him. "I thought I'd never have to come back to this awful place."

John calmly paid and thanked the cabbie, and opened the door. "Be nice. You liked this place when you were here."

"No I didn't. I hated it, but I am an excellent actor, so you all thought I was happy." Sherlock continued to grumble as he slid out of the cab.

"Well, I quite liked it. Until Chris, of course."

Ten years had passed, almost to the day, since Chris had been stabbed to death in the library of the school. John had moved past it, but it still stung to think of the gentle lock forward.

"Of course you did. You met me here," Sherlock replied, moving to stand at John's side and entwining their fingers between them. John felt the cool metal of Sherlock's ring against his finger, and reached up to kiss him on the cheek.

"Of course," He smiled. Sherlock leant down and pressed a gentle kiss to John's lips, and John put an arm around his neck. Sherlock hummed, kissing him again.

"Come on." John broke away, laughing, and tugged Sherlock's arm, leading him up to the school. A sudden flash of déjà vu left him reeling as he pushed on the enormous oak doors and walked into the entrance hall.

"I still don't know why you brought me. I hate school reunions, I hated everyone here." 

"You're like a toddler. You remember Kelly, he had a massive soft spot for you, you liked Iveta, and she openly adored you, from what I could see. I think she was actually angry with me for going out with you. There was Svetlana, who varied between loathing your very essence and wanting you as a brother. And Tim? What about Tim?"

"Tim was simple. Iveta was annoying, Svetlana was positively bipolar, and Kelly was patronising. Why am I here?" 

"Because, Sherlock, these people liked you a lot, and want to know you are happy and well, and they want to know how your life has gone." John proceeded to drag Sherlock through the corridors until they reached the room they wanted - the Great Hall - and paused outside.

"John." Sherlock whined, "Don't make me do this." 

"You're going into this room, you're going to be civil, you're going to ask questions to the people that I called friends, even if you didn't. Try not to upset anyone."

"How would I upset someone?" Sherlock looked utterly confused.

John sighed. "By saying things about people. Private stuff. Stuff only you can see. You know, we talked about it." Sherlock nodded slowly.

"Ah, yes, when you told me I was insensitive and socially inept."

"I never said that."

"I believe it is a direct quote." 

"It's not. I said you needed to consider people's feelings before speaking-"

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort when the doors behind them swung open and Iveta strode into the corridor. 

"Sherlock!" she squealed, stopping dead in her tracks, "it's so good to see you, it's been too long." Iveta then proceeded to wrap herself inextricably around Sherlock, leaving him wide eyed and helpless. John chuckled, drawing Iveta's attention. 

She unravelled herself from around Sherlock, appraising John and smiling, stepping forward with arms wide open. John embraced her tightly.

"Remind me how I managed to fall out of touch with the two of you?" Iveta beamed.

"Something to do with leaving the country? Couldn't wait to get away from us, wasn't that it?" John supplied, sarcastically.

"You went to Russia to work as a biochemist. You didn't deign to send letters or texts, and got by on the odd email to John, most of which asked for my email address which he surprisingly never relinquished. The will wasn't there from either end, and work was keeping you fairly busy, from the look of you, so we lost touch. Needless greeting and unnecessary questioning out of the way, shall we go in?"

"My my, someone's grumpy," she fired at Sherlock. "Did John make you come? I doubt you came voluntarily." 

"I simply explained to him that I hated it here and had absolutely no wish to come back." 

Iveta smiled. "Just like I remember you. Other than more hair and more height, you could still be seventeen."

John grinned. "He certainly acts like a petulant child most of the time."

Sherlock just scowled.

The three of them entered the great hall together, Iveta locating the drinks table almost alarmingly quickly, and acquiring refreshments for all.

When Kelly arrived, amongst a few others, John did a double take. The athletic, tanned teenager he had known was now a man mountain, all chiselled jaw and cheekbones. While John had almost finished growing by the time he left school, it appeared that Kelly had been nowhere near done, filling John's line of sight with six foot six of solid muscle.

"Don't say it," Kelly stated. "I got it enough from my parents after I got back from school."

Iveta gaped, suddenly flustered, apparently lost for words. John smirked. "My, you've grown," he quipped.

"And you, most definitely, have not. I could lift you up with one hand." Kelly's face split into a wide grin. "How've you been?"

"Pretty well, married life has its ups and downs."

"You're married? You and Sherlock?" Kelly asked.

"For better or for worse." John indicated his ring. Sherlock was far too busy sizing Kelly up to pass comment.

"I always knew you had the longevity, mate. Congratulations!" 

Sherlock nodded and smiled slightly, which John took to mean Kelly was genuinely happy for them, and wasn't putting it on for appearances as so many seemed to.

Before any more could be said, the huge door opened once again and Svetlana strode into the room, seizing her sister - Iveta had been working abroad and hadn't been able to visit Svetlana since she had returned - and Tim entered the hall a little way behind, holding a blissfully silent toddler in his arms.

The child was white blond, like his mother, but had Tim's honest brown eyes. Sherlock locked gazes with him, neither breaking the eye contact or even blinking, each incredibly wary of the other.

Svetlana explained that she had taken a degree in physics, and now designed and built satellites. John had always seen Svetlana going into a physical career somehow, engineering or similar; she struck him as that type of person. He was pleased to see that though she had grown up significantly, she really hadn't changed that much.

Tim was a translator, fluent in French, German, Spanish, and, surprise surprise, Russian. Svetlana had spent several weeks teaching him the basics, then she had spoken to him in nothing but Russian for six months. 

"It worked wonders for his fluency and accent," Svetlana said, proudly.

They chatted amicably for a while, sharing stories and recounts of events, until Sherlock cut into the conversation, axing Tim's anecdote mid-sentence, with "May I hold him?"

John was surprised, because:  
1\. Sherlock was willingly initiating physical contact with another human being.  
2\. He had actually asked, first.  
3\. The human in question was not a test subject.

This spelled trouble for John, but Tim relinquished his hold on the tiny James Dmitri White, and Sherlock just held him. John even thought he heard Sherlock humming, at one point.

Sherlock strolled around in circles, bouncing the baby up and down, sometimes holding him out in front, drawing manic giggles from James, ("Jamie," Svetlana corrected, "it suits him better."), and turned to John with a huge grin on his face, so John let him be. 

"You ever think about kids? With Sherlock?" Tim asked, flicking his eyes away from the pair of them.

"I'd love it. I just never really thought about it, I suppose. Our work keeps us quite busy, too, so we probably wouldn't have time," John replied, a little sadly.

"But look at them!" Iveta cooed, wrapping her hands around John's arm. "They're beautiful. Did I ever tell you how badly I fancied Sherlock at school?"

"No, but we guessed. It wasn't exactly difficult to spot," John laughed.

"Yes, well. I never said it was a secret. I'm still single, though, there's no one quite right for me in my life."

"You'll find someone, Iveta. You always did pull through against the odds." Iveta swatted at her sister.

"Leave off, you two. It's nearly time I left, it's going dark soon, and I'd rather my parting memory wasn't of the pair of you fighting and bickering." Kelly rolled his eyes at them. 

"Just because you're big doesn't give you an excuse to be a bully, K," Svetlana poked, but her lips quirked upwards in amusement.

"Sherlock and I had best be leaving. We've got to stop off somewhere on the way home, and we have to be back in London for work tomorrow." John decided not to go into too much detail over their 'work', electing instead to gloss over their dabbling in murder.

Kelly nodded and Iveta made sure her number was on John's phone, agreeing that they had to make more effort to stay in touch this time. Svetlana gave their address, and made them promise to visit. With a last round of hugs and handshakes, Sherlock relinquished his hold on Jamie, the child gazing after Sherlock until they were long out of sight.

***

Sherlock and John stepped from the cab, one more stop to make before heading home. This stop didn't draw complaint from Sherlock, only the warmth of an arm wrapped around John's shoulders.

Pushing his chin upwards, John led Sherlock through the wrought iron gates and started up the gravel path. The fine stones ground against the bottom of their shoes, the only sound other than the wind and the birds, trying to bring light and happiness to the grey day, the clouds hanging low and blotting out the sun.

The small bouquet of flowers John had chosen specially hung loose in his hand, a simple but unique selection of mixed zinnias and chrysanthemums held together by a modest twist of twine.

He knew the man would never admit it, but John got the feeling that the mysterious page of flower meanings he had found open on his browser had been strategically placed by a certain dark haired detective. He was grateful, nonetheless.

An eerie sort of quiet hung between them, not uncomfortable but not normal, either. John knew where he was going, a place he had been many times before, far too long ago. He felt he should pay a visit again, just to say hello, or goodbye.

Sherlock paused as John left the path, leaving him in peace for a moment alone. John picked his way between the rows, finally coming to a stop beneath an ancient oak tree. The pale stone sat, simple and unassuming, no sharp edges or angles, beautifully carved and diligently maintained. The inscription was heartfelt and true; John of all people could tell that.

Christopher Richard North  
1996-2014  
Too well loved to ever be forgotten.  
Until we meet again.

Setting the flowers down, John remained crouching for a moment, eyes closed, fingers on the smooth stone, and thought of him, of the man he could have been.

"It's been a long time, Chris." John murmured, softly tracing the inscription on the perfect granite stone. "I know I haven't visited for years, but I'm living a good life, now. I think I owed it to you, to make the most of what I have, and what you will never have. Do the things you never got the chance to do, you know?" 

John took a breath. "I miss you, Chris. It's weird, I missed you at the time, I miss you now. It's not right, what happened, but I can't change the past, so here we are, you're six feet under and I'm sat by your stone.

"Sherlock's with me. We're married, by the way, I probably should have mentioned that earlier, given he was one of the last things we talked about before you died. But yeah, he misses you too. No, that's not right, he doesn't miss you, he regrets not saying goodbye. And that's what this visit is for, Chris. This is me, telling you I wish it had never happened, but it did, and it's over now. So I hope you're happy, wherever you are, and I hope you're safe."

John could hear the rumbling laughter, see the mirth dancing in those warm brown eyes, feel the presence like a real existence in the mists of his mind. Gradually letting his eyes slide open, the mists dissipated, and John let Chris go.

Sherlock materialised at his side, holding out a welcome hand which John grasped firmly.

"Time to go home," he whispered, and Sherlock nodded.

John turned, looked down on Chris' final resting place, and nodded, shortly.

"Goodbye, big man."

With a small smile that spoke ten thousand words, John turned and walked away.


End file.
